


Mockingbird

by sparrow2000



Series: Magpie [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-22
Updated: 2011-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-24 21:08:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 36,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrow2000/pseuds/sparrow2000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xander is still coming to terms with the events in <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sparrow2000&keyword=Magpie&filter=all">Magpie </a>, but forces outside his control seem disinclined to leave him alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Characters** : Xander/Spike (eventually), Willow, OC’s  
>  **Warnings** : Angst and character death in later chapters  
>  **Disclaimer** : Joss and Mutant Enemy et al own everything. I own nothing  
>  **Summary** : Xander is still coming to terms with the events in [Magpie ](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sparrow2000&keyword=Magpie&filter=all), but forces outside his control seem disinclined to leave him alone.  
>  **Note to the unwary** : If you haven’t read [Magpie ](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sparrow2000&keyword=Magpie&filter=all), which is an Xander, Spike non-slash story, Mockingbird probably won’t make much sense.  
>  **Beta extraordinaire**[](http://thismaz.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://thismaz.livejournal.com/) **thismaz** Thank you my dear, for all your thoughts and insights, your patience and your love. This story is so much better for your input.  
> Mockingbird is dedicated to [](http://twilightofmagic.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://twilightofmagic.livejournal.com/)**twilightofmagic**. I swore I wasn’t going to write a sequel to Magpie, but her comments about the tantalizing possibilities wormed their way into my head and started to gnaw at my brain.  
>  **Comments** Are cherished, petted and called George. You can leave them here on AO3, or at my live journal right [here...](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sparrow2000&keyword=Mockingbird&filter=all)

**Mockingbird: Chapter 1**

The rustle of the leaves, their colours still vibrant with the memory of autumn, sounded strangely loud in the still of the early evening. They carpeted the narrow, winding path between the gravestones and crunched under foot, a reminder that the early winter frosts had begun. The almost full moon made the lichen on the old stone of the Victorian tombs gleam, as if someone had dipped them in silver, the patterns of the moss spider-webbed across marble, like the tracery on the antique silver tea pot that still sat in the library, untouched and unused. A soft wind whispered through the shadows cast by almost bare trees, and the sounds of birds coming home to roost on the tops of nearby rooftops, and chapels, and crypts, played counterpoint to the fine breath of air. They sounded remote. Unreal. Almost ghostly. If you believed in ghosts.

Xander believed in ghosts.

Standing in front of the door of the old mausoleum, he ran his hand down one of the cracked marble columns standing sentinel by the doorway. He slowed the movement, then stopped, before rubbing gently up and down across the stone, measuring its solidity, weighing its fitness for the task of bearing the weight of the tomb.

“It’s not going to fall, you know,” a soft voice murmured at his back. “It didn’t fall when you did that last week, or last month, or all the months before that. Victorian engineering; we knew how to build things to last.”

Xander’s hand stilled, his fingers splayed on the cracked stone. “I know,” he said. “Can’t seem to help myself.”

“We’ve all got our strange habits. Rituals maybe. It’s just one of yours. Are you going in?”

Xander smiled but didn’t turn around. “Don’t I always?”

“Yes. But you’ve always been a contrary git, so I keep expecting you do something unexpected.”

“I’ll remember that. So the more I do the expected, the crazier it’ll drive you, because you’re expecting me to do something unexpected.” He studied the way the pale skin of his fingers blended with the old white stone, then looked back over his shoulder. “Of course, now you’re expecting me to do what you expected, simply because it’s not what you’d normally expect. So maybe I’ll do something unexpected just to be difficult.”

“Now you’re giving me a headache.”

The smile threatened to become a grin, but couldn’t quite make the leap. “You weren’t expecting that now, were you?”

“So are you going in?”

“That obvious, huh?”

“Only if you’ve seen it a couple of dozen times before. You do the whole procrastination routine every time we come. It’s just a surprise to see what form it’ll take. So yeah, you could that say ‘that obvious’.”

Xander chuckled, but there was no mirth in the sound. He rubbed his hand against the stone pillar again, wondering fleetingly if vampires could develop OCD. A smaller, white hand laid itself on top of his own, pressing it gently against the stone, forcing it to stop. “It’s not going to fall. They’re safe here. Nothing’s going to hurt them.”

He wanted to agree, to believe, but a shudder travelled through his body and he rode out the sensation, before pushing himself off the pillar, forcing Spike’s hand away. Spike allowed himself to be pushed and Xander acknowledged inwardly that the word to underline was ‘allowed’. He knew that he may not always like his Sire, or even agree with him half the time, but they understood each other in ways that neither of them was ready to admit.

“Do you have it?” Xander asked.

Spike fished in the pocket of his duster and hauled out an ornate iron key. “One of these days you’re going to ask, and I’m going to say no.”

“Do you think I’d believe you?”

“Probably not, but who knows, I might do it just for the hell of it.”

“Just to be unexpected,” Xander replied with a hint of a smile on his face.

“Yeah,” Spike said gruffly. “Something like that.” He paused, turning the key over his hand, like he was weighing its import, before holding it out for Xander to take. “Come on, let’s get this done. The Witch will be worried if we take too long.”

Xander accepted the key and turned back to the weather-beaten wooden door, placing the key carefully in the large rusting iron lock. Despite its appearance the lock was well oiled and the key turned easily. The door swung open at one gentle push. Stooping, he picked up a bouquet of lilies he’d laid on the ground by the door and stepped over the threshold, into the gloom, his eyes fixed on the back wall. Spike followed behind, pausing briefly to light the candle sitting in the recess just inside the door.

The flame danced in the current from the night breeze, lighting the inside of the tomb with a soft light, illuminating the rows and rows of white marble plaques engraved with names and dates. The ones at the top were dark with the grime of ages, their legends hardly readable anymore. Xander could feel Spike watching him as he stood in front of the wall, and there was a strange comfort in the knowledge that Spike was there. Placing the flowers on the ground at his feet, Xander knelt in front of the bottom row of plaques. They shone, marble white and ghostly in the candle light. The names carved there were sharp and crisp – Buffy Summer, Dawn Summers, Rupert Giles, Andrew Wells.

Xander traced his finger across each of the names, starting with Andrew, lingering over Giles and then Dawn, before coming to rest over Buffy’s name. His finger traced each letter in her name and then followed the grooves of the date she was born and the date she died. The date she died. Shaking slightly, he turned his head and looked back at Spike. “Will it ever get better?”

“One of these days, yeah. It’ll get better.”

“You say that every time I ask. Every time we come. You say the same thing.”

“I know. I’ll keep saying it until you believe it. Or until you stop asking.”

“Aren’t they the same thing?” Xander asked softly, glancing back at his finger still resting against Buffy’s plaque.”

“Nope. You might stop asking, because you’ve given up thinking I can give you an answer you can believe in. That’s not the same thing as believing that it’s true.”

“Do you think I’ll get to that stage? Do you think I can get beyond it?”

“Only you can answer that one. They’re all gone, but they’d want you to believe. The Slayer, the Watcher, Bit, even Geek Boy, they’d want you to believe, but only you can make it happen. It’s up to you. Tell you that, every time we have this conversation.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

There seemed nothing else to say and Xander turned his attention to the lilies he’d laid down at his side. Removing the dead flowers from the vase on the floor, he replaced them, one stem at a time with the fresh ones. He knew they would be dead in a few days, in this room without light, but the gesture was important. To bring life into this dead place, just for a little while. It was the only life he had to offer.

The flowers arranged to his satisfaction, he rose creakily to his feet, the dead flowers bunched in one hand and glanced back at Spike. “Thank you.”

Spike raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“For putting up with me.”

“Don’t do it for you. Do it for the witch. She’s the size of nothing and my duster’s heavier, but she still scares the bejesus out of me.”

“You and me both, bleach boy.”

Xander crossed the few feet back to the door of the tomb and paused next to Spike.”Come on. A grumpy Willow wouldn’t be of the good. We should get back. “

Spike nodded and pinched out the flame of the candle, following Xander into the winter night.

An owl hooted in the darkness and Xander shivered as he remembered another owl, high above the clutter of buildings in the Alfama in Lisbon, the night he’d discovered Rosanna’s body. He felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly and turned back to look at Spike. Spike’s skin was alabaster under the light of the early winter moon. Xander wondered if he looked like that, then shook his head at his own foolishness. Beauty was for Buffy and Dawn and Willow and now he could admit it, for Spike. A different kind of beauty, perhaps, but breathtaking nevertheless, in its own way. He shook off Spike’s hand and strode towards the entrance of the cemetery, the dead flowers clutched in one hand.

Beauty was something for others. Not for him.

Not anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander is still coming to terms with the events in [Magpie ](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sparrow2000&keyword=Magpie&filter=all), but forces outside his control seem disinclined to leave him alone.

**Mockingbird: Chapter 2**

The light was on in the kitchen when Spike and Xander made their way up the path from the coach house that did service as a garage. Xander hated the walk. He knew it was foolish. The path, and the herbs, and the barren, winter stems of the wild roses and honeysuckle weren’t to blame for the recurring memories of running headlong into the rain to find Andrew’s body, carefully arranged in the front seat of his car. They weren’t to blame for the memory of carrying Buffy, her body so light, so fragile, knowing that she’d never live to fight another day. That he’d really got her killed, and there was nothing he could do to bring her back.

Pausing at the bend in the path, listening to the crunch of gravel under Spike's foot, his fingers trailing through the brittle stalks of lavender that had been allowed to grow wild, untended through the long year of grief, he watched Willow moving in and out of the frame of the lit, kitchen window. It was such a normal scene, so serene, so unexceptional and Xander clenched his fingers, bruising the fragrant petals under his hand before he stepped forward, opened the kitchen door and crossed over into the light.

Willow looked up from the counter and smiled. “Do you want some tea?” she asked, but as she spoke she was already reaching for the kettle and running the cold water on the kitchen tap.

“Sure, why not.” Xander replied, dropping down into one of the high backed chairs at the kitchen table. Spike shrugged out of his duster and grabbed a glass and the half empty bottle of whisky from the shelf by the door.

Willow busied herself with cups, sugar and the other accoutrements that made up a proper tea tray. Xander couldn’t help but smile at the way she’d had taken to the Gilesian rituals that they had mocked so gently when they were kids. But watching her, her hand hovering over the small ornate tea caddies, filled with myriad different flavours and smells, he felt that it was right to see her taking on the mantle of carer, as well as Council head from Giles. There were times, when they’d stood in the foothills of this new mountain they had to climb, when he’d worried that she would crack under the weight of responsibility, but she’d stood firm through those early days and weeks after the world had turned to ashes as a result of Drusilla’s caprice. She’d stood firm and looked up, convincing everyone that the climb and the struggle was worth it, and that one day they would reach the top, look down and marvel at the view. Xander wasn’t really convinced, but he’d nodded and taken her hand because she was his Willow. She was there for him, just as she’d always been, from some of his youngest days, through his death and beyond. It grieved him that one day he would be the one to watch her die. He wondered if that would be the moment that he finally fell over the edge.

“Xander?” Willow’s insistent voice broke him out of his reverie and he looked up to see her watching him with a mixture of concern and exasperation. “Xander,” she said again.

“What?”

“I was asking you what kind of tea do you want? Earl Grey, or Darjeeling, or I have some Yerba Matte if you’d prefer?”

“Um, I don’t mind. Whatever you’re having is fine.” Spike snorted, but Xander ignored him.

Shaking her head at his lack of decision, Willow turned back, pulled one of the tins out of the cupboard and started spooning the tea into the already warmed pot. Xander couldn’t see what she’d chosen, but he trusted her judgment that he would like whatever she gave him. Unless it was Lapsang Souchong, which she’d served one day when she was in a really pissy mood and he’d not made things better by wondering how anyone could drink something that tasted of so much smoke. Giles had liked it and Xander knew that was the only reason Willow still kept it in the kitchen. He’d caught her smelling it one day, her eyes closed, tears running down her face and he’d wanted to go to her, but he wasn’t sure he knew how to give comfort anymore. His days as a comfortador had died in the cellar and he wondered fleetingly if, perhaps, he too should have a plaque in the cemetery at Kensal Green.

He flashed back to an image of Giles’ hand curled round one of his delicate china cups, his fingers callused from weapons training and ink stained from wielding weaponry of a more arcane kind, talking about the demon de jour and the prophecy relating to the next week but one. Sometimes Xander wondered why the hell he tortured himself drinking tea at all, given that a vampire didn’t need to consume anything but blood. But something made him do it, and he didn’t feel any desire to analyse too closely whether it was the soul, or his Sire, or the weight of memory that compelled him partake in these rituals that should have meant so little now that he was dead. Undead. Confused. Tired. So tired.

“Hey, you went away. Where did you go?” Willow set a cup down in front of him and brushed his hair out of his eye, her fingers stroking lightly over the eyebrow above his patch, before she withdrew and sat at the table at right angles to him. Lifting up her own cup, she blew across the surface before taking a tentative sip. “Hot,” she said.

“Funny that,” Spike drawled, leaning against the countertop facing Xander, a tumbler of whisky in his hand. “It’s amazing how, when you boil water, pour it over tea leaves and let it steep for a couple of minutes, you get a brew that’s got some heat in it. Tea’s meant to be hot. Only you bloody Yanks would be surprised, but I guess that’s because that abomination you call iced tea. Doesn’t have any business sharing the same word as a decent cuppa.”

Xander took a sip of his tea, leaned back in his chair, looking Spike in the eye as he brought his own teacup up in salute. “Way to go, Spike. We haven’t heard that rant in at least a couple of weeks. You’re improving.”

Grinning, Spike raised his tumbler in return. “Can’t improve on perfection. You can just polish it a bit.”

“Yeah, well if you expect me to launch into some kind of polishing joke, of which I think there are many, you’re going to have to look for someone else to be your straight man tonight.” Xander put his cup carefully down on the table. “Thanks for the tea, Wills. Sorry to be a party pooper, but I’m going to turn in.”

She frowned, glancing down at his hardly untouched tea cup. “But it’s only just gone midnight. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“Yeah, I know. Unconventional vampire that’s me. Sleeping half the night, and up half the day.”

He kissed her forehead, nodded to Spike and left the kitchen before she could say anything else, climbing up the old servants’ staircase to the attics, to avoid the slayers rooms at the front of the house. He had come to terms with the remaining slayers, and they with him, but there were times when the memories they evoked, just by existing, were too much. He pondered Willow’s last comment. He hadn’t answered her question. Where had he gone? Back into his memories, drifting – Spike would have said wallowing, and Willow would worry, and say dwelling. He didn’t have the right word, but drifting seemed to fit as good as any. Sometimes he wondered if, one day, he would drift too far, like a boat uncoupled from its moorings, lost in the sea of his own memories, unable to ever find his way back to safe harbour and dry land. Sometimes he wondered if Drusilla had succeeded in driving him crazy after all. It was a thought that he’d never expressed, but it gnawed at him, worrying at his soul in the few moments he was allowed to be alone.

He reached his room at the end of the attic corridor and unlocked the door. It wasn’t that there was anything really worth stealing, but telling the slayers that a part of the house was off limits was just a red rag to a pack of super-powered bulls. So he’d bought a decent lock and gained as much privacy as he could in a houseful of teenage girls. Undressing quickly, he dumped his clothes on the armchair near the door before he slipped under old fashioned quilt on the bed and curled up. Through the rabbit warren of old chimneys he could hear the younger slayers on the floors below, squabbling about stolen socks and missing stakes, or maybe it was missing socks and stolen stakes. He kind of lost track, after a while, and didn’t feel like the effort was worth expending to tie the thought down. Spike had followed him up the stairs only a few minutes later and was down the hall, cursing as he finished the last cigarette in the packet. Xander chuckled, turned over and let the comforting sounds of the house lull him into sleep.

 

She stood by the river, her hair in ringlets, threaded with scarlet ribbons, her body naked and translucent in the moonlight. “Hello poppet. Don’t you want play? We could play such lovely games. William can tell you about the games. It could be Colonel Mustard in the library with the candle stick. Or maybe Miss Scarlet.” She paused, twirling her finger round a ribbon, bringing it up to her mouth, her tongue coming out to caress the silk in soft kitten licks. “What do you think, my pet? We didn’t get to play. Not before. Not really. We hardly rolled the dice. But now I can feel you. Can taste you. Smell you. You smell like sweet William.” She smiled and ran one crimson tipped finger along her lips. “Sweet, sweet William.

“You thought you could hide from me. Thought you could run from me. But blood knows. Blood speaks. Blood feels the heartbeat, unbeat, hoof beat – can you hear the horseman when he comes riding? Will you beat for me, my sacrificial lamb? Bleat for me. Bind to me. Be blind for me. You're half way there, but I can make you see. Make you whole. Make you strong.

“Come to me, love. It’s time to pay the piper. Time to pay the price. Feel me through William and take his hand. Light me a candle and kneel down together. The doors of my chapel are wide.”

 

Xander sat bolt upright, shaking, the quilt pooled at his waist, and he panted, his face slipping to demon as he scoped out the dark corners. Grabbing some sweats, he slid out of bed and pulled them on. He slipped out into the corridor, walking unsteadily past storage attics and the unoccupied room that had once belonged to Dawn, before he reached Spike’s door at the top of the stairs. There was silence beyond and Xander wondered if he’d imagined everything. Did vampires have nightmares that weren’t memory? He had no idea and, after a moment, he slid down the newel post and wrapped his arms round his knees, preparing to wait out the aftermath of his dream.

Thirty seconds later, Spike opened his door and looked down at him, the inevitable eyebrow raised in question. “What the hell? What you doing out here? I thought you were knackered. Least ways, that’s what you told the witch?”

Xander rested his head on his knees, closing his eye as he ran through the memories clamouring in his brain. “I heard her, Spike. Dru. I heard her. She was in my head. She said she can speak to me. Says she wants me. He opened his eye and looked up at Spike, forcing his face from demon back to human. “She says she wants you too.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander is still coming to terms with the events in [Magpie ](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sparrow2000&keyword=Magpie&filter=all), but forces outside his control seem disinclined to leave him alone.

**Mockingbird: Chapter 3**

The main lights in the library were dim, making crazy shadows in the dark corners of the ornate cornicing, but the long research table, that had once belonged to Giles and had seen almost as much research time as its counterparts in the Sunnydale library and the Magic Box, was lit up brightly by two reading lights, that had been shoved to either end to make room for the inevitable pile of books stacked in the centre. Willow and Xander sat across from one another, their heads each buried in a leather bound book, while Spike stretched out on the leather Chesterfield, a slim volume propped up on his chest, his boots dangling over the end of the armrest.

There was silence, apart from the tick of the clock counting the time as one book was exchanged for another, and another. Spike lit up a cigarette for every tome he pulled from the stack on the floor at his side. The fire in the grate, on the long wall by the shuttered bay window, flared and died back as logs burned down and shifted in the flames and the chimes of the grandfather clock in the corner struck two, then three and finally four. Xander closed his book with a sigh and stretched. “This is useless,” he said. “We’re not going to find anything.”

Willow marked her page with a 6 x 4 card, which was annotated with short notes, in a language Xander didn’t recognize. “You don’t know that. We’ve just not found the right book yet. We have to keep looking.” She shoved a lock of hair back behind her ear, before reaching for the next volume on the pile in front of her with one hand, while with her other she picked up a blank card from the pile at her elbow. Xander could almost see the mantra running through her head ‘Giles would have known.’ Xander had heard her whisper it so many times over the last months, when she’d forgotten about his shiny new vampire hearing.

“Willow,” he said, resting his hands on both of hers, forcing her to put down the card and close the book she was opening. “We’re not going to find anything. I don’t think there’s anything there that will help. If there had been, we would have used it before, when Dru first came after me.”

Shaking her head, she pulled one hand free and Xander saw her eyes flick from her hand to the closed book at her fingertips, but before she could open it, he recaptured her hands and twinned his fingers through hers until they were joined, knuckle to knuckle. Lifting them to his mouth, he gently kissed the top of her wrists. “I’d be happy to be wrong,” he said. “Tell me why you think we’ll find something?” He was aware that Spike had stopped reading and was watching them, but he kept his attention fixed on Willow.

“Before, it was different,” she paused, as if groping for an explanation that would mean something to him. “She came after you physically before. Even when you thought you’d dreamed about her, we realised later that she’d actually been there in your room, in Oxford. But this, this isn’t physical. This is a psychic attack. That puts it in a whole different realm and it’s one we should be able to find a solution for.”

“Witch is right.” Xander turned to see Spike swing his legs off the Chesterfield’s arm and stand, tossing the latest priceless volume down on the floor besides the rest of his stack. “Dru’s always been able to get to people in dreams. Manipulate them in their sleep, until they don’t know whether they’re coming or going.”

Pulling her hands free from Xander’s grasp, Willow shoved her chair back from the desk and stood, turning to face Spike. “Did you just forget to mention that when you were persuading Xander to let himself be turned? Did it just conveniently slip your mind?” Her voice was low and full of the kind of mistrust Xander hadn’t heard in the months, since she and Spike had forged a tentative détente based on Xander’s well-being. Now, he could see that agreement crumbling in front of him. He opened his mouth to intervene, but Willow was already moving, getting in Spike’s face. “You said he’d be safe from her,” she continued, her anger starting to simmer.”That she couldn’t touch him. That you could protect him.”

“Willow, don’t.” Xander stood and moved to stand at her side, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Please don’t.”

“It’s true, Xander. He promised and he lied. He lied to us.” She took a breath. “He lied to me.”

Spike looked from one to the other and glanced down at the just lit cigarette in his hand before replying. “I know that I promised. Meant it too. Guess I didn’t think about dreams. I’ve never seen her do that trick with a vampire. Not in over a hundred years. She’s only ever done it on humans. Never occurred to me that she’d work that kind of mojo on a non-human. Never occurred to me that it would work.” He glanced back down at the smoke in his hand before bringing it up to his mouth and inhaling deeply.

Xander nodded slowly, not liking Spike’s explanation, but accepting it, nonetheless. But Willow brought her hand up quickly, as if she was going to strike a blow, and grabbed at the cigarette between Spike’s lips. Turning, she tossed it into the fire, before rounding back on her target. “I guess you’re not so perfect after all.”

Spike glanced over at the grate and then back at Willow, his gaze resting briefly on Xander before he replied. “Guess not.”

Running a hand through his hair, Xander sighed. “Look, this isn’t getting us anywhere. It’s all water under the bridge, and there’s no use crying over spilt milk, and any other cliché that you can think of. Can we stop with the blame and work out what to do. If there is anything we can do. Wills, if you think you can find something in one of those books, go for it. I just don’t know how to help.” He smiled slightly and shrugged. “Some things don’t change.”

Frowning, Willow swatted him hard on the arm. “Stop it,” she said sharply. "Now tell me again what Drusilla said to you.”

“I’ve just got fragments, which is weird, because right after I woke up it was all so clear in my head. I could have quoted every line. But now, even a few hours later, it’s all kind of hazy, like it’s just static on the radio. All I remember is a whole lot of Dru mumble and rubbish.” He glanced over at Spike. “You know what she’s like. She said she wanted to play games. Said she could feel me through the blood. Through Spike’s blood. That she wanted me and she wanted Spike. Oh, and there was something disturbing about sacrificial lambs”

“Lambs and blood,” Spike whispered. “It’s all in the blood.”

“What do you mean?” Willow said curiously.

“Just thinking about that bitch, Glory. About her bloody tower of Babel, and the Bit trussed up like a sacrificial lamb. The Slayer said it was all about the blood. Blood was life. Dawn’s blood was her blood. One was created from the other.”

“Like Xander was created from you?” Willow glanced at Xander, before turning her attention back to Spike, her anger seemingly evaporating in the face of a new perspective.

“Dru never tasted Xander’s blood. But she knows the scent and the taste and the texture of mine. She’s painted pictures on walls with it, cave paintings of her games and her kills. She knows it like a lover knows a sweet spot. She can feel my blood in him and that’s her way in.”

Sensing that Willow was processing the new information and probably wasn’t going to try to do something nasty to Spike, in the next few minutes, Xander moved away to the fireplace. He leaned his forearms on the mantle, let his head rest against the back of his hands and stared into the flames. “Okay,” he said. “So now that you’ve stopped with the waxing poetical, what you’re basically saying is that she can reach me because we’re all one big dysfunctional vampire family. You’re my Sire and she’s your Sire, so that makes me her grandchild, and that’s how she can get to me. So what we need is the equivalent of a big psychic lock on the door to keep the crazy granny out of the house.” He pushed himself off the mantelpiece and turned round, rubbing his fingers tiredly across the skin just below his eye patch. “Don’t listen to me,” he said with a sigh. “I’m tired and I’m raving.”

“Actually Xander,” Willow replied slowly. “I think you might just be right.”

The “what”, came simultaneously from both Xander and Spike, followed by a “Hey, don’t sound so surprised, I can be right sometimes,” from Xander alone. Spike grinned and lit another cigarette.

“So come on, Wills. Enlighten me. Why am I right? Not that I’ve any objections to being right. I’ve been right lots of times. But not so much recently. Not so much…” He trailed off, but the unspoken ‘not since everyone died. Not since I was turned’ hung in the air. Willow rushed forward to give him a short, hard hug before pulling him away from the fire and pushing him down on the Chesterfield, where Spike had been lounging before.

“Okay,” she said. "Spike talked about blood. About Drusilla finding you though his blood, because it’s the blood that creates the connection between the three of you. So we need to find a way to cut the connection between you two and Drusilla. Xander, you mentioned family and it got me thinking. Do you remember the books?”

“We’re standing in a library, Witch. You need to be a bit more specific.”

Willow folded her arms and glared at Spike. Xander thought about getting up and standing between them, but decided that he was too tired to play the diplomat, or the hero. “Spike’s got a point, Will. What books?”

“The books you brought back from Europe, just before…” she stopped and uncrossed her arms, shoving her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “The one from Lisbon and the one from Venice. Just because they were a red herring, at the time, doesn’t downgrade their validity as important magical documents. They were about how magic works on people who are linked. Who have some kind of connection. We wanted to know if there was anything in them that would be useful, with all the Slayers we’ve now got. Slayers are supernatural creatures, so I wonder if there’s anything in them that might be relevant to other types of supernatural family connections. One book acted as a lock and the other as the key. I’ve looked at them a few times over the last few months, not in any detail because, to be honest, there hasn’t been the time, and I’ve only approached them from a Slayer perspective. But there might be something there we could use. I mean, it’s got to be worth a try.”

Xander looked at Willow doubtfully and then at Spike, who shrugged. “Okay, Wills, book me.” He pushed himself up off the Chesterfield and stretched. “But if we don’t find anything by sunrise, I really am going to have to get some sleep and you should probably do the same, Dru or no Dru.”

Willow grinned and rushed off to the shelves behind Xander, pulled the two books out of the cabinet and brought them over the desk. “Okay,” she said brightly. “We can get started. Spike, you take one and Xander can take the other. I’ll grab the notes I’d already made and see if there’s anything in there that might be useful.”

Sunrise came and went, and despite Xander’s threat to go to sleep and his admonishment to Willow to do the same, the three of them were still deep in their research when the grandfather clock stuck 7.30. Xander and Spike sat at opposite ends of the long table, with Willow between them on the side facing the fireplace. At the sound of the chimes, Willow glanced up at the clock and then back down at her notes, her pen stuck behind her ear, ready for action with another annotation, if needed. Xander watched her out of the corner of his eye, thinking back to all the times he’d seen her in study mode, from kindergarten through to apocalypse. He pulled his meandering thoughts back to the present, as the chimes of the clock finished and Spike got up from his chair, book still in hand, and headed for the whisky decanter in the cabinet on the end wall. Needing a break from the research, Xander turned in his wooden swivel chair and watched Spike pour a generous measure of whisky, before wandering back towards the desk, sipping his drink thoughtfully as he continued to read. Xander wondered if that was how Spike had looked before he was turned, the scholar buried deep in his books, shutting the world out, using words as his shield. In some ways, Xander mused, not much had changed, although now Spike knew how to use words to attack, as well as defend. Waiting until Spike was level with him, Xander leaned back in his chair. “So you didn’t think to offer anyone else a drink?” he asked.

Spike paused at his side and looked startled. “What?”

“Whisky, and the getting thereof. Not very polite to get one for yourself, and not offer the rest of us anything.”

“Yeah, because I’m sure the witch there is just dying for a dram at this time of the morning.”

Xander glanced over at Willow, who just shook her head at the pair of them and went back to her notes. “Okay, you could at least have asked me.”

“You might only have one eye, but you’ve got two legs and two arms, the last time I looked. That makes you capable of getting up and getting your own sodding drink, if you’re that fussed about it. I have to say, it’s good stuff.” He took a sip as if to emphasise his point, before looking back down at the book in his other hand. Xander watched as he saw Spike freeze, the whisky tumbler half way to his mouth.

“What wrong,” he asked urgently, but Spike shook his head, put the glass down on the table and took a few steps backwards, stopped and then walked forward until he was level with Xander again.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Quite probably, but what for specifically?”

“There’s stuff in here,” Spike waved the book in the air. “It wasn’t here before. I’m standing next to you and bob’s your uncle, there are suddenly whole paragraphs that weren’t here when I was looking at it before. When I walked away, they disappeared, and then reappeared when I came back and stood right here again.”

“Okay,” Xander said uncertainly. “So the magical book likes my aftershave or something.”

Willow pushed her notes to the side and leaned forward, her chin resting on her clasped hands. “I think it’s more likely that the book likes the other book.” She nodded towards the leather bound tome in front of Xander. “It must be close proximity that makes them work together.” She glanced at the chair Spike had occupied at the other end of the table. “Really close proximity. Maybe you were too far away before, but when you stopped right by Xander, you also stopped by the other book and were close enough for the key to activate the lock.”

“So, what?” Spike said warily. “Does that mean I’ve got to sit in Harris’ lap to keep the mojo working?”

“Or you could just pull up a chair and sit next to me, so the books can start talking to each other,” Xander suggested.

Spike grabbed the discarded whisky tumbler and tossed back the contents in one long swallow. “It’s like being back in bloody school,” he grumbled, but he steadied the hand holding the book on Xander’s shoulder, and hooked the leg of nearby chair with his foot, pulling it towards him. With a sigh, he slumped down into the seat at right angles to Xander, bringing the book down to rest of the table, until its corner was touching the corner of Xander’s book.

Xander watched as Spike continued to read, his white hands turning the pages quickly, one after the other, his expression tense. After a few minutes, Xander risked a glance over at Willow, who was also intently watching the scene. He wanted to break the silence, somehow lighten the atmosphere, but before he could speak, he heard a curse and turned back in time to see Spike throw his book down onto the table with a thump.

“Fuck,” Spike said, leaning back in his chair and glaring at the ceiling. Xander and Willow glanced at each other and then watched him curiously.

“Okay,” Xander said slowly. “Is that a general ‘fuck, I’m tired’, a specific ‘fuck, I’ve had enough’, or the ever popular, ‘fuck, it’s the end of the world, Flash, and we’ve only got three minutes to save the earth’?”

“Tosser,” Spike replied, but there was no heat in his voice. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. “That was a ‘fuck, the witch was half right about the books being useful’.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Xander looked over at Willow and was glad to see she looked as confused as he felt. “Half right, is half more than we had a few hours ago. So what half was right?”

“The books are useful because they gave us some more information. One book is a lock and the other is a key. Put them together and one helps you read the other.”

“Well we kind of figured that out, what with the amazing appearing and disappearing text.”

“So what this bloody thing is saying is that,” Spike poked at the spine of the book in front of him, pushing it away as if was contaminated. “Now we have a lock and a key, we need something to attach them too. Something like a door. There’s a third book. One the Watcher didn’t know about, because it’s not until you have the two together that it tells you. The third book is the door, and I’m thinking, for anything useful to help block Dru, we’re going to need to bar that door.”

“Brilliant,” Xander said with a groan, laying his head on the table and then rolling it to one side so that he could see Spike out of his good eye. “Don’t suppose that it tells us where the third book is?”

“In a manner of speaking, yeah. The lock and key are usually kept separate, apart from when they’re not, like now. But the door could be kept with either of the other two, because it won’t work without all three being together.”

“So you’re saying…?”

“I’m saying that it’s probably where we collected the other two books. So that means Venice or Lisbon.”

“So that means having to go there to see if it’s there,” Willow interjected. “I don’t really see what the problem is.”

Xander banged his head on the table and then sat up, looking directly at Spike. “Well fuck,” he said.

Spike nodded. “Couldn’t have put it better myself.”

  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander is still coming to terms with the events in [Magpie ](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sparrow2000&keyword=Magpie&filter=all), but forces outside his control seem disinclined to leave him alone.

**Mockingbird: Chapter 4**

After some debate, Xander and Spike agreed that Lisbon should be the first port of call. Willow had argued that the flight to Venice was slightly shorter, so it made more sense to start there, especially when she pointed out that the Council had excellent resources in the city they could take advantage of. She was overruled when Spike and Xander put up a stubborn and united front against her logic. They didn’t actually admit to Willow, or to each other, that they were trying to avoid an encounter with Gabriella, but the look on Spike’s face told Xander exactly what he was thinking. Xander was fairly sure his own expression was identical.

With a lecture about difficult, stubborn men ringing in their ears, and a general plea to be careful and come back quickly and safely, they left Willow to mind the slayers and caught the late afternoon flight to Lisbon. Their decision meant facing Melina when they arrived, who was still formidable in her own right, but definitely more approachable than Gabriella.

Xander stretched out his legs as much as he could in the cramped economy seating. A stewardess made her second pass down the aisle, selling drinks and nibbles and he grinned when the man in the seat in front grumbled about how free drinks and nuts used to be part of the flying experience. He glanced over at Spike, who was plugged into his i-pod, oblivious to anything but Lou Reed and the large drink in his hand, so Xander smiled up at the stewardess, pulled his wallet out of his pocket and bought a second JD for Spike and a beer for himself. He sipped slowly, his thoughts turning inevitably to the long, warm September of the year before, that he had spent in Melina’s city, her company and her bed. They were good memories, tainted irrevocably by the tragic ending, when he’d found Rosanna’s body in the silent courtyard.

Xander had spoken to Melina only once on the phone, since then, not wanting her to hear about the rest of Drusilla’s rampage and his own culpability, from someone else. She’d listened and said little, other than that she didn’t blame him, at least, not after the early days of her grief had given way to a clearer perspective. She’d said that she hoped he would visit Lisbon again, someday. As the plane came in to land and taxied along the runway, he admitted to himself that if there hadn’t been a problem to solve, he probably wouldn’t have had the courage to come back.

The transfer from aircraft, to arrivals, to taxi, went smoothly, thanks to a little Willow magic on their documentation, and Xander sat in the back seat of the cab, wondering what he was going to say when they reached their destination.

The inside of the taxi was hot, despite the pathetic attentions of an ailing air conditioning system. Xander was hyper aware of the chemical smell from the air freshener hanging from the driver’s rear view mirror and the aroma of the half drunk cup of cold coffee that was wedged in between the gear stick and the front passenger seat. The remains of a sandwich was bundled in a piece of wax paper next to the coffee cup – Xander could smell tomato, ham and strong cheese that was several days over ripe. He sat back in the seat, looking straight ahead at the blacktop disappearing under the wheels of the car, and not for the first time or, he suspected for the last, mused on the downside of vampire senses.

Spike broke into his introspection with an elbow to the ribs. “So, give me the skinny about this girl of yours.”

“She’s not a girl. And she’s not mine,” Xander replied.

“Compared to me, she’s a teenager. You’ve got to stop thinking in human terms.” Leaning back in the corner of the seat, his back half against the side window, he looked knowingly at Xander. “You’ve got to remember that you’re not.”

“What? Not human?” Xander glanced quickly at the taxi driver and was relieved to see he was too busy chatting on his cell phone as he navigated through the airport traffic, to pay attention to the conversation going on in the back of the cab. Xander was tempted to look over at Spike, but knew that he would only get drawn into a debate he didn’t want to have. He stared straight ahead. “I got the memo, Spike. Believe me, I know.”

“Sure you do,” Spike drawled. “But you still try to act like it. With the slayers, and with the witch. You’re still fixing windows; you just tend to do it when most folk are asleep, these days.”

“Are you going to analyse me the whole trip?”

“No. Just reminding you that I’m not stupid.” Spike leaned across the seat until his mouth was just behind Xander’s ear. “That I know you.”

Xander chuckled, but didn’t rise to the bait. “I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but I know you’re not stupid, Spike. Arrogant and narcissistic, maybe, but not stupid.”

Spike whistled. It sounded loud and shrill in the small cab. “Narcissistic, now that’s a big, $100 word.”

“Yeah, well, that’s me used up my quota for the day. Don’t expect any more flashes of verbal gymnastics. I’ll let you carry the load for a while and I’ll go back to grunting.”

“So what about your girl?”

Sighing, Xander scrubbed the side of his face, tiredly. “You don’t give up, do you? Okay, her name is Melina, but you already know that, so I don’t really know why you’re asking. She was a good friend. She made me welcome and took care of me, after I was burned out from Morocco.” Xander didn’t have to look over to imagine the leer on Spike’s face. “Yes, we slept together. No, I’m not giving you details. I liked her a lot. She was a good listener and she didn’t judge.”

“Not even after her girl was killed.”

Xander shuddered. Jack O’Toole had nothing on Spike when it came to building bombs to inflict damage. The fact that the shrapnel was words just made it all the more dangerous. Swallowing hard, Xander turned to face Spike. “Don’t bring it up, Spike, please. I know you used it as a weapon last year, in Venice, but please don’t do it here. I don’t know what it’s going to be like. Seeing her again. Bringing up memories. If Melina wants to talk about Rosanna, let her bring it up.” Putting his hand on Spike’s shoulder, Xander shook it gently. “Promise me.”

Spike glanced down at the long, pale fingers, resting against the black leather of his coat. “Yeah, okay,” he said finally. Xander pulled his hand away and went back to watching the road ahead.

The taxi stopped in front of Melina’s small house on the edge of the Alfama and Xander thrust some crumpled Euro notes at the driver. He got out of the cab with Spike at his back, shouldered his duffle and stood in front of the bright yellow door, thinking of all the times he’d stood there before, flowers or bottle of wine in hand. His memory shied away from the picture of Rosanna in her yellow t-shirt, that last day, talking about her school work over breakfast, after Xander had slipped from her mother’s bed.

He raised his hand to knock, but before he could make contact, the door swung open and Melina stood on the threshold. To human eyes, she looked almost unchanged, but Xander could see the fine lines around her eyes and mouth and the beginnings of grey in her hair, that spoke of grief and weariness, and the lack of any desire to take care of herself when no one was there to see.

“Melina,” he whispered. His hand was still raised from his aborted knocking and he reached forward, overwhelmed with the sudden desire to touch her face as he had so many times before. But his finger met resistance from the unseen barrier between them and he lowered his hand, stepped back and dropped his eyes to the ground.

“Xander, please,” she said, but he didn’t look up.

“Right then,” Spike intervened. “You must be Melina. Boy’s talked about you a bit. Didn’t spill any secrets though, which is bloody annoying. He’s like a clam, with his screwed up sense of honour. I’m Spike. You might have heard of me.” Xander heard Spike step forward until they were standing shoulder to shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Spike said formally and Xander’s head shot up, turning to stare at Spike in horror. “It’s hard to lose family,” he continued. “I reckon that you don’t ever really get over it.” He glanced at Xander and then back to Melina.

“Spike, you, you...” Xander stuttered, but Melina interrupted him.

“Thank you,” she said, nodding to Spike. “You are right. We never get over it, but we survive.”Her eyes copied Spike’s movement as she glanced at Xander before looking Spike directly in the eye. “That’s all any one of us can do – survive.”

She stepped back, standing sideways, with the yellow door at her back. “Xander, Spike, you are welcome. Please come in.”

Placing his hand in the small of Xander’s back, Spike gave him a gentle shove forward. Xander resisted for a second, before taking a step across the threshold, into the coolness of the hall beyond. He stopped next to the small oak table along one wall, noticing that Melina still kept her car keys in the blue china bowl and her sunglasses in the shallow, scallop-shell tray, next to it. He turned to see Spike coming in behind him, before Melina shut the door and walked by them to the end of the long hall.

She paused by the kitchen door and looked back. “Willow telephoned to say that you were coming. I know this is difficult for you, Xander. I’ve thought about you often, this last year. I wish you had a happier reason to come back.”

Shaking his head, Xander placed his duffle on the floor next to the table and walked forward until he was standing inches away. “Don’t ever wish, Melina. Not about this.” He raised his hand again and, this time, there was no barrier. He ran his thumb lightly along her cheek, feeling the warmth of her flesh and the blood pumping so close to the surface. He was hyper aware of her every breath, the texture of her skin and the sound of her heart beating. Shuddering, he stepped back and again felt Spike’s hand, solid at the base of his spine.

“So here we are,” Spike said. “Just like the witch promised. Are we going to discuss business in the hall?”

“What?” she replied, looking distractedly at Spike. “No, of course not. My apologies. My manners have taken a holiday. Please come this way. Let me take your coat.”

“It’s all right, love. I’ll hang on to it, if you don’t mind.”

“As you like. We can go through to the sun room. It is still warm from the afternoon, and it is a pleasant room to sit and talk in. Xander, you know the way.”

Nodding, Xander walked through the kitchen door and noted that little had changed since he was there last. He ran his hand along the pine table that he had helped to revarnish, rubbing his fingers absently across the gaudy raffia table mats that were scattered haphazardly across the wooden surface, protecting it from the weight of the imposing stoneware fruit bowl and the large glass vase stuffed with dried lavender. He looked up and stopped, his eyes fixed on the array of photographs on the dresser. Melina, holding Rosanna as a baby. Rosanna in her communion dress. Melina laughing with Roberto the barman in the roof top café. And at the end, one of Melina and himself, standing hand in hand, grinning for the camera, with their backs to one of the graffitied walls that Lisbon was famous for. Xander stared at the photo for a long moment, then glanced behind him.

Melina smiled. “Do you remember that day?” she asked.” We had an argument about whether graffiti could ever be considered art and I took you to the Galeria de Arte Urbana, to prove to you that I was right.”

“As if you actually had to provide evidence to prove that you were right.”

“That’s true,” she replied with a soft smile. “If I say something is true, then of course it must be so. But it was fun to rub your nose in your own false assumptions.

“It was a good day,” Xander said softly, running his hand absently along the edge of the table.”

“Just because things have changed, doesn’t change the memory, Xander. That remains, and it will always remain.” She glanced over at Spike, who was leaning against the edge of the door jamb, half in and out of the kitchen, watching the interchange. “But we are dallying again, and Spike will become impatient. Let us go through.” She skirted by Xander and made her way to the door on the other side of the kitchen, before pausing. “I should have told you,” she said. “But seeing you here has brought back so many memories, and has thrown me, despite the fact that I thought I was prepared. I have a guest. I would ask you to be courteous.”

Xander glanced back at Spike, who shrugged, and they both followed Melina into the candlelit sunroom. Lemon trees in large terracotta pots lined the glass walls and stretched up to the ceiling, and winter flowering jasmine spilled over climbing frames and filled the small room with a heady fragrance. But Xander’s eye was fixed on the peacock chair at the far end of the room, by the door that led to the outside courtyard.

“Hello Gabriella,” he said.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander is still coming to terms with the events in [Magpie ](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sparrow2000&keyword=Magpie&filter=all), but forces outside his control seem disinclined to leave him alone.

**Mockingbird: Chapter 5**

  
“Alexander,” Gabriella inclined her head in acknowledgement of his greeting. “It has been…” she paused as if searching for the right word, “eventful, I think is probably apt. It has been an eventful year since I saw you last.”

“That’s one way of putting it, I guess,” he said warily, rubbing his hands down the sides of his pants. He wondered how the hell Gabriella could make them feel clammy, when he really didn’t sweat anymore.

“I am sorry for your losses. Mr Giles was a good man and an excellent Watcher, despite some of his more unorthodox methods. He is missed. And the Summers sisters, both such contributors to the fight, each in their own unique way.”

Xander noticed she didn’t mention Andrew, but it wasn’t surprising, given that Andrew had never met any of the older European Watchers. Despite his more grandiose fantasist moments, he had had a strong sense of self preservation and had always taken care to fly well below their radar. Xander shuddered inwardly at the very idea of Andrew and Gabriella in the same room.

“Thank you,” he said, aiming to match her, courtesy for courtesy, but he could hear the slight tremor in his own voice and was oddly comforted, for the third time since they’d arrived in Lisbon, by the feel of Spike’s hand resting lightly at the base of his spine.

The hand moved and Spike eased forward, fully into the candlelight. “Not got a greeting for me, Gabriella?” he asked, with the hint of a grin dancing on his lips.

Gabriella leaned back in her seat, looking every inch the queen, framed by the flair of the peacock chair’s extravagant back. “Spike. I’d say that it was a pleasure, but we both know that I would be being less than truthful. However, we are guests in Melina’s house, so I believe I can say, with some sincerity, that I am glad Alexander has company at this time.”

“Thank you, Gabriella. Like you say, all guests and mutual appreciation. I can do that.”

Xander glanced back at Melina, who was still standing by the doorway to the kitchen, and he was relieved when she winked and stepped forward, until she was standing half way between Spike and Gabriella. Not for the first time, Xander acknowledged to himself that the role of mediator was one that came naturally to her. It was a trait he had taken advantage of on more than one occasion, the year before, when dealing with some of the more difficult members of Lisbon’s supernatural underbelly.

“Gentlemen,” she said, glancing from Spike to Xander and back again. “Meeting old acquaintances is always invigorating. Perhaps you would like to sit down and, as my guests, I can bring you some refreshments?

Melina’s comment was couched as a question, but it was clear by the hint of steel in her voice that the invitation to sit was an order. Xander and Spike moved almost as one and sat, kitty corner to each other in the rattan chairs, Xander with his back to the kitchen wall and Spike directly facing Gabriella and the patio door.

“So refreshments?” she repeated. “Gabriella, may I get you another drink?”

“Thank you; you are very kind. Another sherry would be most welcome.”

Lifting Gabriella’s empty glass from the side table, Melina turned to Xander. “What can I get you? I’m afraid the short notice of your arrival means that I have not had the chance to get any blood. But I can direct you to a reputable supplier, once we have talked.”

Xander opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. The idea of Melina thinking about buying blood for him, made his stomach heave. He stared at his hands, gripping the loose fabric on the side pockets of his pants, watching, almost mesmerized, as his fingers flexed and curled against the dark material.

“We’ll take you up on that offer of directions later, pet,” Spike said. “Right now, a beer would hit the spot. He’ll have the same.”

Looking up, Xander smiled weakly when he saw Melina watching him, a concerned look on her face. She nodded to Spike and left the room. Xander glanced over at Spike and then across to Gabriella, who was watching him, her expression unreadable. Despite an almost overwhelming need to look away, he made himself meet her gaze. She hadn’t changed much in the year since their last encounter. Her hair had a small streak of white at the temple, but while Melina’s grey spoke of a lack of care, Gabriella’s looked as studied as her immaculate makeup and the light, cream linen trouser suit she wore. Living amongst so many girls, Xander automatically looked down to check her shoes and was surprised that, instead of the expected Italian leather heels, she wore a pair of black and gold, flat sandals. Her toe nails were painted scarlet.

He looked up as Melina reentered the room, tray of drinks in hand. Catching Gabriella’s eye, he knew that if he’d still been human, he would have blushed at the thought that he’d been studying her feet. The sight of her painted toenails seemed strangely intimate, as if he’d caught a glimpse of the woman under the Watcher’s mantle. Accepting his beer from Melina, he took a long gulp to clear his head, watching as the rest of the drinks were distributed and Melina sat down in the chair next to him.

Silence reigned, for a few short seconds that felt like a lifetime, until Xander gave in to one of the questions in his head.

“How is Annunciata?” he asked.

Gabriella sipped her sherry and put it down on the table beside her before replying. “She is well. She has adopted Ilario. He now stays with her at the house and helps with the chores, when he is not at school.” She smiled. “He still fights her whenever he needs his hair cutting. Some things do not change.”

Xander took another gulp of his beer. “I’m glad”, he said, his eyes fixed on the drip of condensation running down the outside of his glass.

“She doesn’t blame you, Alexander.” Xander’s head jerked up. He felt like someone had pulled on a puppet string. “She grieves for her sister, for the loss of Illario’s mother. But she also grieves for you. For the decisions you had to make.”

“Do you blame me?” Xander asked, his voice low but his eyes fixed on her face.

Shrugging, she reached for her sherry glass again and gazed into the pale, golden depths before looking up. “There was a time when I would have done so. But life is complicated. I do not like the decision that you made, but I believe that you felt you had no other choice at the time. We all do things that others may frown upon, when we have no choice. Choice is the important word. So in that respect, no, I do not blame you. You did not kill Elena. I am content to follow Annunciata’s lead.”

“Thank you.”

“Why are you here, Gabriella?” Spike said, slouching back in his chair, his legs straight out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. “Not that it’s not a pleasure to see you, but Lisbon’s not exactly on your beat.”

“Europe is a small place, Spike. You know that. Venice and its surroundings may be my beat, as you so colourfully phrase it, but no area is too far out of reach. I received a telephone call from Miss Rosenberg last night. She told me that you were searching for a third book. One that was related to those you sought last year. That it was likely to be either in Lisbon or Venice. For some reason, you decided to start your search in Lisbon, despite her best counsel.” She smiled knowingly. “I thought I would save you the journey and come to you. Melina was kind enough to welcome me.”

“So are you saying the book is definitely here in Lisbon?” Spike asked, straightening up, his posture transforming from relaxed to alert in the blink of an eye.

She shook her head. “I cannot say that for certain. But I am sure it is not in Venice. There is very little of a magical or supernatural nature in that city, that I do not know about. I would have heard.”

Spike tilted his head and smiled. “But you were so eager to see us again, that you came tripping all the way to Portugal. Maybe when we’ve sorted out this mess we could go for a coffee. Catch up on old times, yeah?”

Xander glanced from Spike to Gabriella and back, knowing by the way her expression changed that Spike was having fun, without ever losing the veneer of courtesy that the rules of hospitality demanded. He decided it was time to bring the conversation back on track. “So why did you come, Gabriella? Have you heard something?”

“No, not exactly,” she replied. “But I do have some information that I thought might be pertinent and I don’t always trust technology. Venice has been a city of intrigue of a thousand years. The communication age has only enhanced its penchant for whispering in corners. When I last saw you, you came in search of a book that Spike had liberated in one of the shadier parts of the city – the partner of the one you collected here in Lisbon. Spike was sure, at the time, that the books were somehow linked to the two deaths that had occurred up to that point.” She glanced over at Melina and then back to Xander. “After I parted from you at the railway station, there was perhaps a week before I heard what had happened in London. That the books were incidental. I understand that, at that time, you had other things on your mind than informing me that you had moved away from the books as a catalyst for the murders and onto other matters. However, since I was unaware of those developments, in that intervening week I did some research, to see what I could discover of their true nature.”

“If you found something that was important enough to travel here, why didn’t you call us at the time?” Xander asked curiously.

“Because by then I had heard that the books were an aside and nothing to do with the deaths. The news of Mr Giles and the Miss Summers’ deaths travelled quickly through the supernatural community. In the face of such tragedy, the small amount of information that I had gained did not seem important.”

“But now you think it might be?" Spike asked, looking at her over the rim of his glass.

“The books are about magic and how it affects families, both those linked by blood and those who are closely connected by other means. I knew Mr Giles was interested in them, because of their implications for the many slayers who had been called. After searching some of the contemporary texts, I discovered other references to family magic. To the fact that the strength of the magic is directly connected to the strength of the ties between family members. The potentials were connected long before they were activated, even if they didn’t know it at the time. Now, in this new era, we understand that the slayers, while not telepathic, are hyper aware of the movements and thoughts of each other. It’s what makes them even more formidable as fighters. The strength of the magic driving them is the empowering spell. It split, like light passing through a prism, and the potential slayers absorbed it. The magic is individual to each slayer, but like the light, it is also part of a seamless whole. It makes them who they are and binds them together.”

“You’re not telling us anything we don’t already know. The girls can kick the arses of most of the big and uglies, from London to Lima.”

“Exactly. From an intellectual perspective, what I found only confirmed what we had long surmised. When the books were discovered to be irrelevant to the situation last year, there seemed no urgency in raising the little I had found. I had intended to discuss it with Mr Giles, the next time I saw him.”

“But now you’re here, so you’ve obviously changed your mind.”

“Miss Rosenberg told me about the dream Alexander had. That Drusilla had found a way into his dreams. And that you had discovered the existence of a third book that might act as a door, to the lock and key we already have.”

“And you remembered what you’d discovered last year.” Spike leaned forward, staring at her.

“Correct. Having intellectual speculation confirmed and realizing the implications of it, are two different things. I remembered that strong magic can trigger an even stronger bond within families, depending on the nature of the bonds between its members. Xander was turned by you and you were turned by Drusilla. You have a family connection that runs deep within you all.”

“But we know this,” Xander said, puzzled by the direction of her thoughts. “We’re one big, unhappy vampire family. And turning isn’t strong magic. It’s a blood exchange and putting a situation vacant sign up for the demon.”

Gabriella shook her head. “The magic isn’t in your turning. It’s in the ensouling. Your soul was secured by one of the most powerful witches in the world. You received blood from Spike, also ensouled, through magical trials in Africa, and we have no understanding of the real nature of the magic he experienced there. Spike has the blood of Drusilla running through his veins and she is a powerful seer and magic user. The power is cumulative and similar in that way to the Slayers' spell. Each piece of magic fuels the next and reflects back on itself, again and again.”

“Like a hall of mirrors in a funhouse,” Xander said quietly.

“If you like. Once I heard that Drusilla was meddling again, I had a responsibility to tell you what I had learned, so you could add it to what you had already deduced for yourselves. It is the strength of your bond that I believe lies at the root of your problem. If the third book is indeed here, in Lisbon, it may give you clues to how to use the bond to your advantage, either as a defence, or as a weapon. At this point, I am not clear which option, if either, will be open to you.”

To hear Gabriella sound almost uncertain was unsettling and silence hung in the small, candlelit room, for what seemed like an endless time, before Melina spoke. “Did you bring the other books with you?” she asked.

“We thought about it,” Xander replied. “But Willow pointed out that hauling around two magical books that might help us with our problem, while Dru was somewhere on the loose, might not be the most sensible idea. It seemed better to track down the third one and take it back to Will in London.”

“I’m glad to hear that, at least in some things, you listen to Miss Rosenberg’s counsel,” Gabriella said.

Xander laughed quietly. “Listening to Will is kind of an ingrained habit of mine. She’s normally right. I just sometimes don’t want to admit it.” He studied the scuffed toes of his boots for a second before looking up. “So I guess, now that we’ve got a bit more information, we need to see about tracking down the book.” He glanced over at Melina. “I’m thinking we should pay a call on Tiago, since he had the first one. It would make sense if the little creep had an idea of where it might be, if he doesn’t have it himself.”

“A good suggestion,” Melina replied. “But I know that Tiago has been absent from the city for a few days.” She smiled briefly at Xander’s questioning look. “You remember that I like to keep my ear to the ground. Lisbon is not a big city. The absence of a chaos mage is easily noted. However, I do not think he will be absent for long, if he can be judged by his normal habits. It may be that you will have to cool your heels for a few days. Perhaps show Spike the sights?” she finished with a wider smile.

The thought of playing tour guide to Spike almost made Xander spill his beer. He put the glass hastily on the table at his side before he could make a fool of himself. “Sure,” he said. “I can do that.”

Spike snorted and sprawled back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Gabriella. “You going to stick around as well? You could come sightseeing with us, if you like?”

Xander glanced from one to the other and decided that playing the diplomat had the potential to get old, very quickly. “Thank you for all your information, Gabriella,” he interrupted, before Spike could think about anything else to bait her with. “You didn’t have to come. I’m grateful. I’ll understand if you have to get back to your duties in Venice.”

She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Consider it a debt paid, for you having to spend two days on the Orient Express with Spike.”

Spike raised a finger and Xander rose hastily to his feet, grabbed Spike’s hand and pulled it down to his side. “The last couple of days have been a bit crazy,” he said. “If you don’t think we’re rude, I’d like to get some air and clear my head. Think about what we know.”

He glanced over at Melina, who nodded and pushed herself out of her chair. “Of course. Go ahead. Gabriella and I have much to talk about. Take time to get reacquainted with the city. If you need blood, there is a butcher near to Roberto’s bar. Mention that you are staying with me and they will give you what you need.”

Xander dipped his head again before meeting her eyes. “Thank you. You took such good care of me last year and here you are doing it again.”

“It is what a good hostess does,” she said with a faint smile. “Now go, and take Spike with you before he and Gabriella run out of polite things to say to each other. You may use the outside door, here. Go across the courtyard and down the steps at the back. You remember the way?”

Nodding, Xander leaned over and, after a moment’s hesitation, kissed her lightly on the cheek. “I remember. And thank you,” he said again. He turned to Gabriella, who nodded regally to him, before taking another sip of her sherry. "Right,” he said. “We’ll see you later.” He opened the glass door and stepped out into the fragrant night.

Turning, he saw that Spike had stopped next to Gabriella. Neither was speaking, but Xander felt like he was watching a movie in a language he didn’t understand. He bit his lip, wondering whether to go back in, but paused when he saw Spike bow, an oddly courtly gesture, and he watched Gabriella’s hands curl hard on the arms of her chair.

Spike sauntered out of the door, to Xander’s side, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. "Right then,” he said. “Let’s go and see what they do for fun around here.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander is still coming to terms with the events in [Magpie ](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sparrow2000&keyword=Magpie&filter=all), but forces outside his control seem disinclined to leave him alone.

**Mockingbird: Chapter 6**

After leaving Melina’s house, Xander found his feet inexorably drawn towards the Miraduro de Santa Luzia. Spike kept pace with him and they walked in silence through the narrow streets, Spike smoking one cigarette after the other. Xander wanted to ask him about Gabriella, about the tension between them, but he wasn’t sure that Spike would give him an answer, or even if he really wanted one, if Spike was suddenly in a sharing mood. He decided on a different tack. “Have you been in Lisbon before?” he asked.

Spike glanced at him and kept walking, blowing smoke out into the night air. “Once, but not for a long time. Dru and I came in the 30’s.”

“Has it changed much? I mean, when I was here last year, it kind of felt like it had probably always been like this, but then I’d come across a new building, or a piece of graffiti, and there was the modern world. But it feels like a veneer, you know?”

With a brief smile, Spike nodded. “Yeah, I know. There’s a lot that’s changed since I last visited, but even more that’s hardly altered at all. The Alfama still has all the narrow streets, and the hills and viewpoints, and the endless stairways. Each part of the city has its own flavour, it just changes subtly, with the ebb and flow of the people who live there. You can’t change the geography and the guts of a city. Only nature can do that. But there are superficial changes. It’s like I said, back on the train on the way to London that time: the places I’ve seen – the bar, or café, or shop, might not be there anymore, but there’ll be another just like it opened up 'round the corner, or the corner after that.”

“Is that what you meant about stopping thinking like a human?”

“Partly. This city, it’s got its history built right into the foundations of the buildings. After the great earthquake in the 18th century, they quarried the ruins to build some of the new parts. The lower parts are now built on wooden stilts to keep the buildings above sea level. It means they’ll sway if there's another quake, but not keel over like they did before.”

Xander stopped momentarily, surprised by the implication, before catching back up with Spike. “Just like they do now with some modern buildings in earthquake zones?” he asked.

“I suppose so, although the builders here were just a little bit ahead of the game. Necessity being the mother of not having the city crumble around your ears, the next time nature decides to throw a tantrum.”

“You know a lot about this stuff,” Xander said curiously.

Spike glanced sideways again and shook his head, as if Xander had said something particularly stupid. He flicked the butt of his cigarette into the herb pot on the front step of a nearby house and lit another without breaking his stride. Sighing, Xander realized that the conversation was over.

They walked on, past the shops, cafes and churches that had become almost as familiar to Xander the previous year, as the buildings on the route from his apartment to Revello Drive.

After another five minutes of walking, they broke out of the tangle of buildings and wandered along Rua do Limoeiro towards the viewpoint. The terrace of the Miraduro was peaceful in the dark of the late evening, the tourists long gone, ensconced in the relative safety of the thousands of restaurants and hotels across the city. The sudden freedom from the narrow streets was like a breath of air. Xander noticed Spike’s shoulders start to relax, for the first time since they’d started walking.

They crossed the terrace and came to a halt at the ornately tiled wall that shielded the unwary from the drop below. Xander leaned forward, looking out over the rooftops to the water, before turning round. He leaned back with his hands braced on the wall behind him and gazed up at the ramparts of the Castelo de Sao Jorge, safeguarding the city, just as it had done for centuries. He felt safe with the tangle of the Alfama streets and the sea below, and the weight of the castle above. With Spike beside him, he felt somehow cocooned and protected from all sides.

He closed his eye for a second, enjoying the quiet, before opening it again and looking directly at Spike. “So, you going to answer my question now, or are you bent on perfecting your Angel impression?”

Git,” Spike said with a snort, settling himself down on the top of the wall. “You wanted to know how I know ‘stuff’ as you so eloquently put it. When you’ve been around as long as I have, you learn things, almost by osmosis. But I’m curious by nature. Vampires aren’t all about killing and chaos, although that has its attractions. The old ones survive because they understand how the human world works. How they fit into that world and how they don’t. You’ve got to learn that.”

Rolling his eye, Xander shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants. “I remember what it was like to be human, Spike. It wasn’t that long ago.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. It’s not about remembering to be like a human. It’s about understanding how to be a vampire. The castle there,” he waved his cigarette in the air, like a tour guide indicating points of interest to bored tourists. “There are bits of it that date back to the sixth century. Its seen Romans and Visigoths, Crusaders and hordes of Japanese tourists, in its time. It’s crumbled in places and been rebuilt and it’s still here, watching over the comings and goings of this city of explorers. Can you imagine some of the things you built, still being there centuries later? There are vampires and demons here, who’ve seen all that happen. You won’t ever see them, but you can be sure they know we’re in their city.”

Xander pushed himself off the wall and walked forward a few paces, shoulders hunched. He halted by a stone pillar holding up a trellis covered with trailing winter jasmine and reached up, plucking one small yellow flower from the vine. He lifted it to his nose, inhaling its subtle aroma. “Centuries,” he echoed, his eye still fixed on the delicate flower in his hand. “It’s almost unimaginable. I don’t know if I want to.” He turned to find Spike watching him. “Gabriella said that ‘choice’ was the important word. But even though I chose this…this life…this existence… I didn’t really chose.”

“Is that so?” Spike said slowly.

“I’m not Victorian, Spike. I’m modern day engineering. I don’t know if it’s built to last.”

“I think you’ll be surprised. Takes a bit of getting used to, that’s all. But you’re getting there.” Spike looked at the burning butt of his cigarette and pinched the end to extinguish it, before throwing it over the wall, onto the roofs below. “She’s going to die, you know.” he said abruptly. “Not this week, or next, but one day, she’s not going to be around. Just like all the others, she’s going to leave you someday.”

Xander didn’t even pretend not to know who he was talking about. “I know,” he said softly, glancing briefly down at the flower in his hand before putting it carefully in his pocket. He looked back up at Spike. “It scares me. I’ve known her nearly all my life. I don’t know if I can imagine things without her – with her not being around to boss me about, or frown when I cuss and generally keep me in line. But I’m going to have to, aren’t I?”

“Unless you do something stupid, or go for a walk in the sun when it happens, then yeah, you’re going to have to deal with it.”

“Would you let me walk in the sun?”

“Not out of grief, no. If it was what you really wanted, after the grieving was done, then I couldn’t stop you. You’re a big lad, despite the way you act sometimes.” Spike studied his boots for a second before looking up. “I’d probably still try to talk you out of it.”

“Why?” Xander watched as Spike processed the question, then held up his hand. “Actually don’t answer that. Can I ask you another question?”

“Can ask,” Spike replied. He looked indifferent, but Xander could hear the curiosity in his voice.

“How do you feel about Dru?” he began hesitantly. “I know you’re a white hat now, or maybe more of a grey hat,” he paused, thinking. “I guess you could say the same for me. But you helped us last year. You came up with a solution when you could have just fed me to Dru and been done with it. Now we’re here. You’ve got memories of her being here, and in a thousand other places you’ve seen together over the last 100 years. Now she’s back, saying that she wants me, wants both of us, and we’re trying to find something that will block her out. Do you want to stop her?”

Swinging one leg over the edge of the wall, so that it dangled in space, Spike lit another cigarette and stared out over the rooftops. He didn’t speak for a minute and Xander watched the rhythm of his hand, as it rose to his mouth and fell again. The smoke floated on the night air, like the fog Spike had once told him about, from his Victorian youth. “It’s complicated, me and Dru,” he replied eventually. “I worshipped the ground she walked on, but I’ve always known I came second. Not just to the great Irish plonker, but to what Dru wanted. I’d find a nice spot on a Greek island to settle for a while, then she’d hear a tale of some tribe in the Amazon that caught her fancy and she’d be away. I’d always follow. I got tired of following.”

“Is that why you offered to turn me?" Xander could hear the need in his own voice and hated himself for it, but he ploughed on, determined to know. “So that it would be your chance to lead?”

“Maybe. Seemed like the only option at the time. When your back’s against the wall, you deal with the fallout when it happens.”

Crossing the few feet that separated them, Xander pushed himself up onto the top of the wall, facing Spike. “What if we can’t find the book?” he asked. “Or what if it doesn’t have the answers we’re looking for? What if we have to go after Dru? Would you do it?”

Spike’s hand rose and fell, cigarette moving like an off kilter metronome, keeping time with his thoughts and his moods. “Like I said, pet. When you’ve run out of options, you have to do what you have to do. Why don’t we cross that bridge when we come to it, yeah?”

“I’m beginning to feel like all our bridges might be burning. What Gabriella said tonight, about the magic we triggered when I was turned...?”

“Didn’t trigger it. Just build on what was already there. Made it sing through your veins. Now Dru can sing to you.”

“So why now?” Xander pulled his legs up until his feet were flat on the top of the wall, his chin resting on his knees. “Why didn’t she try before?”

Spike shrugged. “Who knows. It’s like asking why she decided to make a game of you before. You caught her fancy and she wanted to play. She was probably off licking her wounds, after she lost the last game, and now she’s back for a second round. Could have happened six months ago, could have happened 10 years from now. With Dru, you never know. Maybe she was bored and wanted some entertainment.”

“You’re not exactly being comforting.”

“Not my job to be comforting. You knew that before and you damn well know it now. I’ll be here for you, but I won’t lie to you.”

Xander raised his head and gazed out to the water far below, the wind from the sea blowing his hair away from his face. “Yeah, I know. Thank you.”

“You’re saying that a lot tonight.”

"I know. Annoying isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

Xander was pondering whether he could be bothered thinking of a witty retort, when a low ringing from his pocket caught his attention. He swung both legs back on to the terrace side of the wall, pulled out his phone and pushed the call button.

“Hello,” he said. “Melina. Yeah, I’m fine. We’re up at the viewpoint. Yes, that one. Yes, I’m predictable.” He paused, frowning as he listened to her speak. “Yeah, okay. I know where it is. No, don’t. Stay there. Please, stay in the house with Gabriella. We’ll just scope out the place for now, see what the lay of the land is.”

Xander shut the phone, shoved it back into his pocket and looked at Spike, who was now slouched back against the wall, one leg bent and his foot flat against the elaborate tiles that decorated the surface of the wall.

“That was your girl? Got something to tell you?”

“She just had a call from one of her contacts in the city. Our dirty little chaos mage, Tiago, has been spotted coming back into town. Since that’s who I got the first book from, it would probably be worth seeing what he’s got to say for himself.”

“And here’s you promising that you’d only go for a look see. I think I’m corrupting you.”

Xander snorted. “I’ve been lying since I was old enough to know how to use it to my advantage, Spike. That’s one thing you don’t get to take credit for.”

“Maybe I’ll just have to think of something else. Corruption is my middle name.”

“Right,” Xander drawled. “And here I was thinking it was Algernon.”

"I’m not the special-ed one here, pet. Less of your lip now, or I’ll do what any good Sire would do and put you over my knee.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Keep it up, bleach boy, and I’ll tell Gabriella you were nasty to me. Melina too.”

“Little bastard,” Spike muttered under his breath, but Xander heard him just fine. “Right then, enough mucking about.” He straigtened up and rubbed his hands together, looking every inch like a child who’d been promised a trip to the candy store. "Let’s go create a little chaos of our own.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander is still coming to terms with the events in [Magpie ](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sparrow2000&keyword=Magpie&filter=all), but forces outside his control seem disinclined to leave him alone.

**Mockingbird: Chapter 7**

The lights at the front of an ancient monastery lit up the empty square. Xander skirted the edge, keeping near to the crumbling walls, his eye fixed on the narrow lane running up the side of the shadowed cloisters. “Are you sure you know where you’re going? “Spike murmured at his back.

“I’m sure. Remember, I’ve been here before, when I collected the first book.” Xander glanced briefly back at Spike before continuing. “Although that time, I actually came to help Melina confront Tiago and warn him off chasing Rosanna. My role was to look menacing and glower a lot.”

“Yeah?” Spike chuckled quietly. “How’d that work out for you?”

“It worked,” Xander muttered, just a hint of indignation in his voice. “I can glower with the best of them, when I’m properly motivated. It helped that Tiago’s got a spine that would embarrass a jelly fish. The only person I’ve seen cave quicker, is Willy, so that gives you a benchmark for weaselness.”

“Nice.”

“It was only once we’d done the threatening that I realised that he was the same person I needed to see about the book. It was kind of serendipity, if you believe in that sort of thing, which I don’t.”

“There’s another $100 word. The Watcher would be proud of you, pet.”

Xander stopped, his hand splayed against the worn stone of the ancient walls. He took a deep breath, forcing down the shudder that threatened. “I hope so,” he said softly and continued his cautious approach to Tiago’s workshop. Spike, every inch the predator, stalked silently behind him.

Pausing in front of a small door set back in the wall, Xander turned and looked at Spike. “This is where the little shit does his day to day work. There’s a workshop out front, where he carries out his legitimate business.” He glanced down at his feet, then back up at Spike, a small smile on his lips. “Kind of reminded me of the Magic Box, but less organised, and not so much with the white hat central. He also has a few private rooms in the back. He may be a spineless weasel, which is a really disturbing image, but I wouldn’t put it past him to have a few tricks up his sleeve. I guess the main thing is that weasels can be pretty dangerous when cornered.”

“That’s true. There was this one time, when Dru…” Spike stopped at Xander’s look and held up his hands. “Okay, not the time. I know. So our bloke is just back in town and probably not expecting company. We might just catch him on the fly.”

“We can hope, but don’t hold your breath.” Spike raised an eyebrow and Xander rubbed at his eye patch distractedly. “Okay, you know what I mean. Old habits die hard.”

“Chaos mages die even harder, so let’s see what we can do to help him take a step in the right direction.”

Xander just knew there was a whole range of lurid scenarios running through Spike’s head, soul or no soul. “Spike, we’re to check out the place and, if he’s here, get some information. No killing. Melina would be pissed, and I don’t want to think what Gabriella will say.”

Spike rolled his shoulders, as if he was preparing for a fight, before grinning at Xander’s expression. “Alright, pet, have it your way. Spoil all my fun.”

With an exasperated shake of his head, Xander started to turn away when Spike grabbed him by the shoulder. “The little creep doesn’t need to know that we generally play nice, now does he?” he said with a wicked grin.

Xander paused, his eye widening as he realised what Spike was saying. He nodded slowly before turning around. He grasped the handle of the door and turned it sharply. The door swung inwards on oiled hinges, revealing the low lighting of a shop in its nighttime state. It looked empty, but as he stepped across the threshold, Xander could hear a heartbeat coming from somewhere at the rear. He raised a finger to indicate one person. Spike rolled his eyes and nodded, pushing by Xander to step further into the room. Xander followed and looked around. The workshop did remind him of the Magic Shop, in so far as the walls were lined with glass jars, vials and pottery dishes, just made for pounding herbs and mixing potions, but it was smaller, seedier and less cared for. It didn’t have a Giles to look after it. Xander dug his nails hard into his palms and continued his survey. There were old leather bound books on one small bookcase, obviously for public consumption. Xander was pretty sure that Tiago’s library, behind the scenes, was much more extensive.

He started when Spike touched his arm and indicated the beaded curtain at the back of the workshop. “Git’s got a bead curtain,” Spike muttered in his ear. “He really does deserve to die.”

Chuckling quietly, Xander gestured for Spike to go ahead and followed on behind. Somehow he knew that Spike would part the curtain, like he was entering a wild-west saloon. He wasn’t disappointed. Hearing the strings of beads clatter against each other, he decided that there was no point in stealth and duplicated Spike’s move. He had to admit that it felt kind of cool, but he’d deny it if Spike ever brought it up.

The narrow hallway beyond had two doors off to the left and one to the right. All the doors were slightly ajar, as if inviting guests to enter, but Spike nodded to the second on the left and strode forward. He kicked hard at the flimsy timber, slamming it into the wall, before walking through, shoulders back, arms loose at his side, ready for battle. Xander followed, content with a less dramatic entrance.

Tiago sat behind a long wooden desk, at the far end of the room, a precarious pile of hidebound ledgers and an old adding machine at his elbow. His hair was light brown, fading towards grey, and his skin had a sallow, stretched look over his face, that spoke of too few days in the sun and the abuse of far too much magic. He looked exactly as Xander remembered.

He stood up slowly, but didn’t move from the shelter of his desk as Spike and Xander walked further into the room.

“Hello Tiago,” Xander said.

“Gentlemen,” Tiago replied with a smile. Xander had seen friendlier smiles on sharks. “To what do I owe this pleasure? Unfortunately my workshop is closed, but I’d be glad to assist you if you would like to make an appointment.”

“Not really one for appointments,” Xander replied. He glanced over at Spike, who had taken up position on his left, within line of sight of the main door and a smaller, narrower door in the corner, that was half hidden by a faded tapestry. Spike fiddled with his Zippo, running it through his fingers like some management toy, but his feet were apart, his back was straight and his eyes gleamed with the promise of violence. Xander took a breath and straighted his own back, imagining the weight of Spike’s duster settling on his shoulders, mentally clothing himself to complement Spike’s physical threat. He glanced back at Tiago and smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. “Old acquaintances don’t need appointments, do they Tiago? And if you don’t want visitors, you should really learn to lock your front door. You never know what kind of unsavory types might be out at this time of night”.

Tiago flinched, glancing from Xander to Spike and back again, as if trying to decide who was the greater threat. “Mr… Mr Harris, isn’t it?” he stuttered. “Yes, that’s right, that’s right. Things have obviously changed in the last year. You’re moving in new circles, now, by the looks of it.”

Xander shrugged. “Same circles, different direction. I should introduce you to my Sire. You might have heard of him. Spike, also known as William the Bloody, meet Tiago, also known as spineless weasel. Tiago, meet Spike.”

Nodding, Tiago rubbed his hands down the front of his shirt. Xander could see the trail of sweat left on the grubby fabric. “Yes, yes, of course. So what can I do for you?”

Strolling forward, Xander came to a stop at the right hand side of the desk and hitched up one hip, to perch on the corner. He knew without looking that Spike had moved in behind him. “We’ve come about a book. You remember the book from last year, Tiago? The one about the family magic? Well, guess what? There was a second one that you never told me about. Spike here picked it up in Venice.”

“Very resourceful of him, I’m sure.” Tiago replied, his smile becoming wider and more false by the second. “All’s well that ends well, as Shakespeare would say.”

“Not quite, mate.” Spike wandered a few steps to the side and leaned casually against the opposite corner of the desk. “See, the thing is, we’ve now discovered there’s a third book. One that might be kind of useful. We’re thinking that you might know something about that, so we thought we’d pay a call, and ask you all nicely.” Spike looked over at Xander. “See, I can do nice. That was nice, right?”

“That was really nice, I’m impressed,” Xander replied before turning his attention back to Tiago. “Since Spike’s taken the trouble to dust down his manners, it would probably be good for you to help him out. What do you think, Tiago?”

“And if I can’t?” The chaos mage pushed his chair back, giving himself room to maneouvre. Xander slid off the edge of the desk and Spike straightened in response to his move.

“I think that’s more like 'if you won’t'?” Xander replied.

“Won’t is such a strong word, Mr Harris. You see the position you’ve put me in. I had plans for the original book, but you came in here with that harridan, making your demands, and even when I capitulated, you took the merchandise from me by force.”

Taking one step to the right, Xander moved around the side of the desk. “I paid you for it, remember.”

Tiago opened his mouth, as if to reply, but closed it again, obviously thinking better of it.

Xander took another step forward and smiled. “Remember, Tiago, we’ve got Willow on our side. You’ve heard of Willow, haven’t you? She’s probably the most powerful witch on the planet, at the moment. She’s also my best friend. Do you want me to call her? Because I can. If you’d like?” Xander stuck his hand in his jacket pocket and dug out his cell phone. “See, I’ve got her on speed dial and everything.”

“But, but, you’re working for the other side, now. Aren’t you?” Tiago asked cautiously.

“Like I said, same circles, just a different direction. But Willow’s been my best friend since I was a kid. She’s got a weakness for me, you know? It’s kind of useful, if you get my drift. It’s amazing how easy it is to play the human, when it’s necessary.”

“Yes, yes, I understand. I can see how that could be very useful.” Tiago nodded enthusiastically.

“So tell me, before I lose my manners and Spike remembers he doesn’t have any.”

“Okay, okay. I sold it to a scholar. A priest. He wanted it. I sent it. He paid me. End of story.”

“And this scholar would be where, exactly?”

“He’s at a school. In England. In the north, I think. I’m not familiar with the geography of such a nasty cold country. But I think it was one of those big, private schools, where the teachers are clergy. That’s all I know.”

“Seems to me you’ve got all these ledgers. You’re too smart to lose track of things, Tiago.” Spike snapped his Zippo open and shut, open and shut, the clicking sounded loud in the tense silence. “So you can either look in your books and find us the answers we need, or I can break every bone in your body and burn this place around your ears.” He paused, head tilted as if thinking. “In fact, I might let my boy, here, do the breaking. He’s coming along nicely, but needs to work on his technique. He’s still a bit messy. No finesse, if you know what I mean. But he’s a quick learner.”

“There’s no need for threats,” Tiago replied hastily. “You are right, of course. I was forgetting he would have given me his address, so I could send the book to him. My memory, it’s not what it was, you understand. Please, indulge me while I look for it.” He bent down, opening a desk drawer and began to rummage through a stack of papers, pens, coins and other clutter inside. He glanced furtively up at Xander and smiled as he started to withdraw his hand. His fist was clenched, but before he could open it, Spike dropped his Zippo on the desk and grabbed Tiago’s wrist, twisting it until the chaos mage opened his fingers and a small stone statue of a two-faced man fell onto the wooden surface with a thump.

“Not nice, Tiago,” Spiked growled and twisted Tiago’s wrist a little tighter. “Not nice at all,” he repeated. “Though I’ve got to give you points for trying. No point in being a mage if you can’t use your mojo in a tight spot, is there?” Spike let go and Tiago hissed and rubbed at the angry, reddened skin.

“I’m glad you appreciate my position,” Tiago said, his tone wavering between bitter and obsequious.

“’Course we do. So now that we’ve got the theatrics out of the way and established the pecking order, good and proper, maybe we can get some service and we’ll all be happy.”

“As you say.” Tiago gave his wrist a final rub before pulling out the ledger that was second from the top of the pile. Thumbing through it, page by page, he stopped and tapped a finger on an entry near the bottom. “There,” he said. “That’s who I sent the book to. I’ll write it down for you and you can be on your way, yes?”

“No need to bother, mate.” Spike pulled the ledger out of Tiago’s hand and ripped the page out of its binding. “There you are. See, that was easy, wasn’t it?” Spike studied the paper for a second, then glanced over at Xander. ”Looks like a trip back to Blighty is in order. Haven’t been to the north in years.”

Xander grinned and turned his attention back to Tiago. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, there’s just one more thing. A little word of warning, from one acquaintance to another. I might be the evil undead now, but Melina’s the one you really have to be scared of. She’s got some powerful friends, and she still remembers your nasty little obsession with her daughter.”

“Ah yes, the fair Rosanna. Such a beautiful girl. So, toothsome, you might say. I’m sure you two gentlemen will appreciate the pun.”

Xander’s hand shot out, grabbing Tiago by the front of his jacket before the chaos mage could move. “Do you see me laughing, Tiago?” He tightened his grip, hauling Tiago up, until he was almost on his tiptoes. “Well, do you?” he repeated. Tiago shook his head, his breath hitching as Xander loomed over him.

“No, no,” Tiago replied. “You misunderstand, I was joking, yes?”

Xander loosened his grip and Tiago settled back with his feet firmly on the ground. He flicked a quick glance to the small statue, abandoned on the desk top and Xander tensed, ready for an escape attempt, or another trick. “Don’t even think it,” he said softly.

“Or what?” Tiago replied resentfully. He squared his shoulders and looked Xander in the eye. “You come in here, making your demands, and even after you get what you want, you’re still threatening me.”

Xander took one step backwards, suddenly shocked at how easy it had been to slip into the skin of his darker emotions. He knew his mask had only slipped for a moment, but it was enough and Tiago took a matching step forward, a shark scenting blood.

“Cat got your tongue?” he asked almost tenderly. "Or, maybe daddy’s got your tongue?” His eyes flicked to Spike and back to Xander, a salacious grin on his face. “I’m sure daddy would be only too willing to fight for you, if you’re not willing to face Janus on your own. Or maybe we should call in his Sire? I’m sure she’d be glad to lend a hand.”

Spike moved swiftly from the corner of the desk and slid in behind Tiago, whispering in his ear. “What do you know about Drusilla, you little bastard?”

Tiago tried to turn towards the threat, but Xander shook himself out of his momentary torpor and grabbed him by the front of his grubby shirt, pulling him back around. “What do you know?” he echoed Spike’s question.

“Know?”Tiago almost crooned. “I know lots of things? I know enough to keep a crazy vampire happy. I know enough to kick people, right where it matters. You‘re moving in a different direction now, so you’ll understand. You do what you have to, to get what you want. Liberating, isn’t it? I know how to get what I want. And if I don’t, then I know how to make it hurt.”

“What do you mean? What did you do, Tiago?” Xander moved his grip from Tiago’s shirt to his hair, shaking him, as if he could shake the truth loose.

Tiago’s smile got wider and Xander stilled, as he saw the exact moment the chaos mage decided he had nothing left to lose. The shark morphed back to weasel and the weasel bared its teeth.

“That bitch’s precious little girl. Her Rosanna. Screamed like a banshee and bled like a stuck pig, I heard.”

Xander’s head swam as Tiago’s words crashed over him, small waves getting higher and higher, until he felt like he was drowning.

Tiago leaned closer, whispering almost conspiratorially. “Pity really, I would only have made her bleed, just a little bit, and she’d have screamed in pleasure, but you had to come meddling. You and the she-wolf. So it’s really your fault.”

Xander saw red.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander is still coming to terms with the events in [Magpie ](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sparrow2000&keyword=Magpie&filter=all), but forces outside his control seem disinclined to leave him alone.

**Mockingbird: Chapter 8**

He shoved Tiago hard against the wall and the chaos mage struggled as Xander’s human features melted away, leaving only the demon. Xander could smell Tiago’s fear, see every pore, oozing with sweat, hear his heartbeat, jack hammering in his chest.

Digging his fingers deeper into Tiago’s hair, Xander leaned down until his face was inches from Tiago's. “You turned Dru on Rosanna,” he growled. “Your fault she’s dead. Your fault Melina’s been grieving. Your fault that Dru started her killing here."

Tiago wriggled like a fish on the end of a hook, pushing at Xander’s chest, as if his strength was any match for the demon. “I loved her,” he cried. “But she wouldn’t talk to me. I wanted to make her understand.” He looked wildly at Spike, who stood to the side, one shoulder leaning against the wall, watching calmly.

Xander snarled and wrapped his free hand around Tiago’s throat.

“She was beautiful. I wanted touch her. You wouldn’t let me touch her,” Tiago wailed.

“You fuck. You killed her. Pointed Dru at her. You might as well have killed her yourself.” Tightening his grip around Tiago’s throat, Xander squeezed, grinning when he heard the chaos mage start to wheeze and frantic fingers scrabbled at his hand. “See how you like it. See how it feels.” Xander leant forward, his fangs scrapping the edge of Tiago’s ear. “Do you think it will hurt Tiago? Shall I make it hurt? Make you feel like Rosanna must have felt?”

Beating his hands uselessly against Xander’s shoulders, Tiago screamed thinly, unable to get breath under the pressure of the hand at his throat. The smell of urine filled the room, but Xander held firm, a picture of Rosanna crystallising in his mind – her small, tanned feet clad in summer sandals, her school uniform pristine, in black, white and red, and her dark hair caressing her shoulders, hiding the ragged, red ruin of the jagged wound on her neck.

“See you in hell, fucker,” he roared.

He struck down, letting his hate guide him, like a beacon in the roiling sea of his emotions, teeth rending flesh, as Tiago keened and writhed in his iron grip. The blood was intoxicating – hot and spicy, laced with something intangible that could only be the magic that the mage absorbed and dispersed with every spell. The heat, and the taste, and the power coursed over Xander’s tongue, coating his throat, and it screamed through his body as Tiago’s heart began to stutter and fail. One last struggle, one last deep draught and it was done.

Tearing his fangs out of Tiago’s throat, Xander raised his head, eye wide open and mouth dripping with blood. He met Spike’s impassive gaze. “So that’s what it’s like,” he whispered. “That’s how you felt, for 100 years?”

Spike nodded, eyes gleaming as he shifted, letting his demon come to the fore. He lifted his hand and ran his thumb across Xander’s lips, smearing the blood, and raised it to his own mouth. He lapped delicately. “That’s what it’s like.”

Dropping Tiago’s body, Xander ignored the dull, wet thud as the head hit the wooden floor and took a quick stride to get in Spike’s face, shoving him hard up against the wall. One hundred years of brawling helped Spike absorb the impact and he came back, grabbing Xander by the shoulders and pivoting until Xander was pinned against the brickwork.

“You want to play, pet? Think you’re a big boy now?” Spike chuckled and loosened his grip, allowing Xander to spin them again.

“Bastard,” Xander growled. “Son of a whore.”

“Just words, pet,” Spike taunted.

“Not your pet.”

“What are you then?”

“Whatever you made me.” Xander shoved one hand into Spike’s hair, his other pushing hard on Spike's shoulder, until they were pressed full length against each other.

“Did you feel the blood, pet?” Spike murmured in his ear. “Did you hear it singing in his veins? Calling to you?”

“Shut up.” Xander’s unneeded breath hitched as Spike moved his hips.

“Make me.”

Using his greater height to keep Spike pinned against the wall, Xander bent his head, smashing their mouths together. _“My boys,”_ a voice whispered in his head. He felt Spike’s tongue caressing the edge of one fang and shuddered as Spike trailed his hands slowly up under Xander’s shirt, knuckles dragging against soft, vulnerable skin. _“My pretty boys.”_

After the longest moment, Spike reached Xander’s shoulders, grabbing hard and spun them again, so that Xander was sprawled against the wall, legs wide, panting, his eye fixed on Spike. On his Sire. _“'Will you walk into my parlour?' said the spider to the fly”_

“Still not your pet,” Xander gasped and Spike chuckled, fangs flashing as he moved between Xander’s legs, capturing his mouth again, until there was only the sensation of tongues, the scent of blood, leather and heady arousal, and the sweet, sweet pressure of rough denim against his cock as they rutted and groaned. _“Blood and bones, bones and blood..that’s what pretty boys are made of.”_ Tiago’s blood pounded through his body, _“Bleed for me...Die for me...Come for me...”_ and he felt his orgasm roar through him. Throwing his head back, Xander wailed as Spike struck, embedding his fangs in Xander’s neck.

Xander felt his legs wobble and he braced against Spike’s shoulders, holding himself upright as Spike withdrew his fangs. Shuddering, Xander looked down at the stained front of his pants and at Spike’s matching pair, before looking up. _“Can you hear the heart beat? Hoof beat. Drum beat. Can you hear it calling?”_

Spike’s demon face melted away to reveal a sardonic grin and the inevitable quirked eyebrow. “Well that shut me up,” he drawled.

Xander glared at his Sire, lifting his hand to finger the wound on his neck. _“Two pretty boys. Light and dark. Night and day. All bound together with scarlet ribbons and blood.”_ Pulling his finger away, he stared at the blood and then down at Tiago’s abandoned rag-doll body, sprawled on the floor by his desk. His eye darted from the body, to the blood on his finger, to Spike, and back to the body. The voice in his head melted to mocking laughter and he pushed himself off the wall, shoved Spike out of the way and bolted from the office.

He ran.

He ran as if every demon who’d ever tried to take over the Hellmouth was at his heels. He ran like he had one more chance to save Buffy, and Dawn, and Giles, and Andrew, and every slayer and stranger who’d ever died on his watch. He ran, flying by fresh graffiti and ancient buildings, pounding along narrow alleys and up steep stairways, dodging startled late night tourists and ignoring the catcalls and invitations from girls and boys standing on corners, looking for trade.

He ran until the laughter in his head started to fade and he finally stopped, collapsing on a stone bench in front of an old, dry fountain in a small abandoned courtyard. Leaning back, he closed his eye, reliving Tiago’s taunting words, the taste of magic laced blood and the feel of Spike’s fangs in his neck as he came. He opened his eye, desperate to escape the images in his head and looked around for the first time since he’d stopped running. He sobbed as he realised that he was in the courtyard where he’d found Rosanna, his mad flight guiding him, like a homing pigeon, to the source of all of his pain. Hanging his head,he stared at the cracks in the concrete at his feet and wished that the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

He had no idea how long he sat there, but after a time he was dimly aware of the sound of singing coming from a window high above him. Looking up, he saw the silhouette of a women, standing by some open shutters. Her voice was plaintive and haunting, and her song hung in the night breeze like autumn mist. He didn’t understand the words, but the rhythm and the tone had its own language, and he put his head in his hands and lost himself in the sounds of love, and longing, and loss. The music curled around his tainted soul and he grieved for the people he had lost, and the monster he knew he had become.

The thud of heavy boots coming nearer acted as a counterpoint to the song. Xander smelled old leather and fresh cigarettes, as Spike approached along the narrow alley and entered the courtyard. Keeping his head down, Xander tried to recapture the feeling that would let him drown in the music, blotting everything else out, until there was nothing left but the singer and the song.

“It’s called Fado,” Spike murmured as Xander felt him settle on the bench beside him. “Was born right here in the Alfama. It’s the sound of Lisbon lamenting. You can probably hear a dozen songs just like it, on a night like this – Fadonistas singing in dark clubs and open windows, performing for tourists and aficionados and themselves. It’s the soundtrack of the city – its poems, and its heartaches and its history, come to life. You should ask Melina about Fado.”

Xander raised his head as the song drew to an end. He heard the clatter of shutters closing out the night and the uninvited listeners. He stared straight ahead, visualising a small body lying on the cold ground in front of him.

“Why did you let me do it, Spike?”

“Let you?” Spike questioned.

“Killing Tiago, why did you let me? You could have stopped it.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? But you didn’t.”

“No.” Spike pulled out a cigarette, and his Zippo, and stared at them for a second, before lighting up and looking back over at Xander. “No, I didn’t,” he repeated. “You’re a vampire, Xander.”

“I know I’m a vampire.”

“Do you?”

“It was a lesson?” Xander asked incredulously.

“Not a planned one. You’ve spent the last year grieving, and that’s fine. But I’ve told you before, you’ve got to stop thinking like a human. Soul or no soul, sooner or later you needed to know how it felt. Drinking from the tap. Feeling a heart slow and weaken. Feeling the power and the strength running through you. You’re so bloody strong as it is. Strong enough to survive and not buckle under. Strong enough to die. But you have to understand how strong you are now. How strong you can be.” He leaned back against the edge of the fountain. “So no, I didn’t plan it, but I wasn’t going to stop you once you’d started. Not this time.”

Xander pushed himself off the stone bench and stared up at the shuttered window where the singer had stood. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shook his head. “I didn’t want this, Spike. I didn’t want to be different. I was happy being normal. I’ve been kidding myself that nothing had changed. That I had a soul, and I hadn’t killed, so that meant I was still me. But it’s a lie. I’ve changed. I’m a killer. Just another monster, driven by bloodlust, and power, and hate.”

Easing himself off the bench, Spike stood at Xander’s back, close enough to touch. He kept his hands by his sides for a second, before laying one gently on Xander’s shoulder. “Nothing wrong with hate,” he said softly. “Properly directed, it’s a powerful weapon and I’m all for it. Tiago deserved your hate and he deserved to die. Just don’t hate yourself. You don’t deserve it.”

“She was in my head, Spike. Dru – I could hear her. Calling. Whispering. I enjoyed it – the feeling of power, of hate, and Tiago struggling. She was in my head, afterwards, when we… when we did what we did. She knew, and she was laughing.” Xander felt the tremors start to run through his body and he jerked his hands back out of his jacket. A small yellow flower, a passive passenger to the violent motion, fluttered to the ground and lay crumbled on the concete. Xander wrapped his arms around himself, as if he could stop himself coming apart at the seams. He shut his eye again, letting himself fall into the memory of the Fadonista’s song and his heart shattered under the weight of his grief, and his fear, and his hate.

Spike stood behind him, hand resting lightly on his shoulder, giving him strength as he wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N**  
>  If any one is interested in knowing more about Fado, which is an amazing art form, check out this clip of Mariza, one of the foremost Fado singers in Portugal today. Here she's singing [Primavera](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=88yCqVos-UI&feature=related)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander is still coming to terms with the events in [Magpie ](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sparrow2000&keyword=Magpie&filter=all), but forces outside his control seem disinclined to leave him alone.

**Mockingbird: Chapter 9**

Dawn was approaching and the first rays of the early winter sun glowed faintly on the horizon. Xander walked slowly along the narrow, twisting streets, ignoring his surroundings, ignoring the threat from the encroaching light, ignoring Spike.

“Melina’s going to be worried,” Spike said conversationally. “Bet she’s been outside watching the sun. Mother hen, that one.”

Xander walked on.

“Gabriella, too. Bet she’s fretting. Not about me. She’ll be worried about you, even if she doesn’t say it out loud.” Spike sighed and took a long draw on his cigarette before continuing, “You’re going to have to talk to me sometime. Not like I haven’t seen you cry before. Reckon I’ve seen you at your lowest. I’ve been right down there with you, a time or two. I’m not going to hold it against you.”

Xander glanced sideways, never breaking stride, before looking straight ahead again, his eyes fixed on the last set of shallow steps at the end of the narrow street and the yellow door that had once signalled laughter, and safety, and comfort. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever find comfort again. He wasn’t sure he deserved too.

Taking the final steps two at a time, Spike overtook Xander and pitched his fag into the gutter with a flourish. He knocked sharply on the door and shot a glance back at Xander, who had paused at the top of the stairs. The first fingers of sunlight lit up the city at his back. Spike turned around at the sound of a key turning in the lock in the quiet of the early morning, then Melina stood on the threshold, echoing her stance from the night before. She pulled the door wide and stepped to the side.

“Come in, I was worried,” she scolded, swatting Xander lightly on the shoulder when he followed Spike into the hall. “Two, so-called, responsible adults, leaving it to the last minute to get out of the sun. Anyone would think you had a death wish.”

Xander stopped dead at her words. In the blink of an eye, he turned and lunged back for the door, just as the sun lit up the pavement beyond. He was quick, but Spike was quicker, grabbing the back of his coat collar with one hand and his elbow with the other, hauling him back into the dim light of the cool hallway.

“No, you don’t,” Spike growled in his ear. “Told you last night, I’ll only let you do that if you make a proper decision. But not like this.”

Xander struggled for a second before slumping in Spike’s grasp. He nodded in resignation, keeping his eyes on the ground.

“Xander,” Melina exclaimed. “Xander, look at me.” It was a mother’s voice, brooking no argument. Xander looked up, his eyes skittering along the pictures on the wall and the knick-knacks on the hall table, before coming to rest on Melina’s face. His shoulders were hunched and his coat collar was up, the ends of his hair spilling over the edge. He didn’t speak.

Melina glanced at Spike and Xander felt, more than saw, Spike shake his head. She looked behind her and Xander followed the movement, noticing Gabriella for the first time, standing at the end of the hallway by the kitchen door. Her hair was down and she’d shed her jacket, but she still looked effortlessly put together. Not at all like someone who was up in the early hours and probably hadn’t been to bed.

“Come in to the kitchen,” Melina said. "The shutters are closed.” She turned and walked down the short hall towards Gabriella, who stepped into the kitchen without speaking. Spike placed a hand between Xander’s shoulders, making him walk forward, Spike at his back.

When they entered the kitchen, Gabriella was sitting at the far end of the table, the door to the sun room behind her. Melina stood in front of the dresser, the photo of her and Xander that Rosanna had taken the previous summer, perched on the shelf behind her left shoulder. Xander didn’t know if her positioning was intentional, or accidental, but it made his stomach roll.

Dragging a chair out from the table, Spike pushed Xander down, before leaning against the sink, his back to the shuttered window. The position had a clear view of all the occupants of the room and both doors.

“Are you going to tell me what that was about?” Melina asked. Gabriella leaned forward, her clasped hands resting on the table in front of her.

Xander kept silent, but his fingers restlessly traced the grain of the wooden table top.

“Alright,” Melina said slowly. “Let’s try something else. Did you see Tiago?”

Xander glanced over at Spike, then quickly at Melina and Gabriella, before fixing his gaze on the wall somewhere to the right of Melina’s head. He didn’t look at the photos.

“What’s wrong?” Melina asked sharply. “What happened?”

“What makes you think something happened, pet?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Spike, something obviously happened,” Gabriella said tersely. ”You both nearly missed dawn. Xander tried to run into the sunlight. Now you’re being obstructive. Not that that is new. You might as well tell us, because neither of you are leaving this room until you do. So let’s start again and answer Melina’s questions. Did you see Tiago?”

“He’s dead,” Xander said softly. “I killed him.”

“What?” Melina slid into the seat opposite him and reached out, as if to grasp his hands, but he pulled them away and clasped them in his lap, out of reach. “What happened?” she asked.

He shook his head, refusing to look at her. “Xander,” she tried again. “What do you mean, you killed him?”

“I told you what happened. He’s dead.” He could feel the anger building inside him and almost taste Tiago’s blood coating his tongue.

“But there has to be more to it than that.” Gabriella sat back in her chair frowning. “You went to check his movements and, if appropriate, approach him for information. What changed?”

Shoving the chair backwards, Xander stood and braced his hands on the table, head down, before turning to glare at Gabriella. “What can I say? I came. I saw. I killed. That’s what I do, remember.” He shifted, letting the demon come to the fore. “I’m a vampire. That’s what I do. I kill.”

He stared first at Gabriella and then across at Melina, noting every scent and hitch of breath, sensing anger, pity, confusion and fear. He strangled a laugh when he realised that the smell of fear was mainly his own.

A round of applause cut the silence and Spike slouched further back against the sink, watching him, the hint of a grin dancing at the corner of his mouth. “Well, that was a show and a half. Going to sit down now and put on your party manners? Or have you got something planned for an encore?”

Xander glared at him balefully and Spike looked pointedly at the empty chair Xander had vacated. With a growl, Xander pushed the demon down and deliberately shoved the chair into the table edge. He stepped back and stood in the doorway, his hands shoved in his coat pockets, fingers opening and closing, like a dog chasing rabbits in its sleep. The force of the movement pulled his coat collar down.

Spike chuckled. “So now we`ve done the show, maybe we can get to the tell part of the proceedings. Tiago`s dead. Little bastard deserved to die. He got what he deserved."

"That`s not a tell, Spike,” Gabriella said irritably. “That`s an abstract. A little more detail would be appreciated.”

“We went to ask about the book. After a bit of persuasion, the little bastard told us that he sold it to some scholar, at a posh school up north, in England.” He dug into the pocket of his duster and pulled out a torn bit of paper. “The mage might have been a slimy little shit, but he kept good records of all his transactions. Our buyer is based at Ampleforth, just a bit north of York. Haven’t been there for a long time.” He tilted his head as if he was recalling a good memory. “Might even get a day or two at the races while we’re in the area.”

“As edifying as this is, Spike, I have no interest in your recreational plans. Get to the point.”

“I’ll tell you what happened.” Turning his attention away from Gabriella, Spike looked at Melina. “That bastard killed your little girl.”

“What?” Melina jumped to her feet, pushing herself away from the table, her eyes fixed on Spike. Gabriella moved more slowly as she rose and moved around to stand at Melina’s shoulder. “Rosanna died from a vampire attack,” Melina said softly. “A vicious vampire attack. Xander told me it was probably Drusilla. I saw the wounds. I buried her. You weren’t here.”

“No I wasn’t. You’re right, she was attacked and bitten. But you don’t blame the bullet, or the gun, for someone’s death; you blame the person that pulled the trigger. The mage was obsessed with your girl. He thought he was in love with her. At least, in lust. He didn’t like being told he couldn’t touch the bright and shiny he was after.” Spike’s eyes flicked to Xander, then back to the women. “Didn’t like being strong armed. Decided that he wanted to get his own back. If he couldn’t have her, then nobody was going to.”

“So he made a deal with a master vampire to kill her? He made a deal?” Melina asked faintly. She swayed and Gabriella pushed her back down into her chair.

“Not just any master vampire, remember? Drusilla. My Sire. Your girl didn’t stand a chance.”

“She was here because of me,” Xander said quietly, his eyes fixed on the wooden floor at his feet. "She was looking for a place to start her game. Tiago gave her the perfect opening move. He pointed Dru at Rosanna, then stood back and watched the chaos.” He looked up at Melina. “So it’s my fault. I killed her really.”

“No you didn’t,” Spike cut in.

“Guilt by association,” Xander replied. His stomach flipped and he felt like he’d eaten something sour. “I might as well have bitten her myself. Her and Elena. The couple on the train, and Ginny and Maureen at the station. The man in Oxford. Andrew and Dawn, Giles and Buffy. They’re all my fault.”

“We’ve been over this,” Spike said sharply. “Time after bloody time. I’m tired of hearing about it. The self flagellation stops now. Dru killed them. Dru’s game. Dru’s rules.”

“Spike, I don’t think this is the time,” Gabriella started.

Glaring, Spike pushed himself off the sink, hooked a kitchen chair with one foot and pulled it towards him, spinning it round and straddling it, his arms folded along the top of the backrest. “This is exactly the time. He’s been grieving for the last year. Going over every moment. Wondering if there was something he could have done differently, that would have changed the outcome. I’ve let him do it. So has the Witch. But this is one step too far. Dru killed your girl, but Tiago gave her a target. Like I said, I’m sorry for your loss, but we can’t bring her back. We persuaded the mage to give us the information about the book and he stared gloating about the girl. Thought we’d be applauding the family exploits. He wanted to stir the pot and used Dru to do it. She had her own reasons for allowing herself to be used. So blame Tiago. Blame Dru. But don’t lay blame where it doesn’t belong. Don’t feed his guilt complex.”

“None of this changes the fact that I killed Tiago.” Xander said, rubbing absently at the side of his neck. “You can’t say that I’m not to blame for that.”

“I never said you didn’t do it. Just don’t blame you. Good, bloody riddance to him. Fucking chaos mages are a menace. Never met one that wasn’t better off dead. I won’t mourn him. Neither should any of you.”

Gabriella studied Xander’s face, as if searching for a reaction to Spike’s declaration, before looking back at Spike. You let him do it.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes,” Spike replied steadily.

“Then you bit him,” she continued.

“Well, sometimes a relationship is a bit more complicated than a coffee and a bit of cake, yeah.”

Gabriella rolled her eyes, but didn’t reply. Xander got the impression it wasn’t from the lack of a cutting retort.

Turning his attention back to Melina, Xander could tell the moment she joined the dots between Gabriella’s question, Spike’s reply and the bite on his neck. Her hand flew to her mouth and, for the second time, she shoved her chair back from the table and stood, walking quickly towards the sun room, her arms wrapped around her body. Xander straightened, pushing himself off the door jamb.

“No.” Gabriella’s command stopped him before he could take a single step. “Let her collect herself,” she said.

She turned back to Spike. “You don’t know the meaning of the word subtlety, do you? All you had to do was scope out the landscape. Perhaps ask a question or two, if the appropriate opportunity arose. But that was too straightforward. Too sensible and civilised.”

“Don’t blame Spike,” Xander interrupted. “It was my decision. I made the move. Both the moves,” he amended. “She spoke to me. Drusilla, I mean. She whispered in my head, after I killed Tiago. Before the bite. During...well, during. She knew. It felt like she was inside me, cheering me on. It felt terrifying and enticing. I felt like I was standing on the top of a cliff and she made jumping seem like the most logical choice in the world.”

Gabriella raised her eyebrows and Xander felt like he wanted to curl into a ball and disappear from her dispassionate gaze. “All the more reason to stop this, before it goes any further,” she said. "You will go back to England and contact the priest. You will find out if the third book can help and you will do what needs to be done. Before you do something else that you regret.”

“You giving orders now?” Spike grinned at Gabriella.

“Spike, don’t,” Xander pleaded. “Yes, the plan is still to get the book, or to get information about it. We just got derailed.”

“Then you need to get back on track,” Melina said quietly, from the sun room doorway. “Find the book. Do what you need to do with it.” She turned to Gabriella. “I need to see him. Tiago. I need to see his body with my own eyes.”

Gabriella nodded, glancing at Spike and Xander as Melina skirted around the kitchen table. Xander shifted out of the doorway and took two steps sideways, until he was standing by Spike’s chair.

Melina paused by the kitchen door and looked back. “I suspect we will be gone all day. I know that you don’t need blood, so that’s not a concern.” She gazed at Xander, before shifting her attention to Spike. “Don’t be here when we get back.”

Turning on her heel she left the kitchen. Gabriella followed, pausing only to nod to them both.

The sound of the front door shutting resounded in the early morning silence. Xander slumped down into his long vacated chair. Spike pulled out a cigarette and stared at it, before shoving it back in his pocket. Neither of them spoke for a long time.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander is still coming to terms with the events in [Magpie ](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sparrow2000&keyword=Magpie&filter=all), but forces outside his control seem disinclined to leave him alone.

**Mockingbird: Chapter 10**

Xander wasn’t sure what he expected Byland Abbey to be like, but the word ‘abbey’ inevitably conjured up images in his mind of something grand and gothic, like Westminster Abbey or, well, like Westminster Abbey, because he couldn’t actually think of any other abbey. He wasn’t quite sure what made something an ‘abbey’, instead of cathedral, or a minster, or any other word that someone might have come up with to describe a really, really grand church. Whatever the word, the last thing he was expecting, when they arrived in the cold of a late North Yorkshire afternoon, was a bleak, half flooded field and a pile of old, ruined, stone walls that wouldn’t have looked out of place in any good horror movie. Facing the quiet country road, were the remains of what had once been an imposing front edifice, that had obviously housed a spectacular circular window. By contrast, the inn across from the abbey was warm and snug and, most importantly, in one piece. It was much more to Xander’s taste.

“Sad, isn’t it?” Spike said behind him. Xander glanced over his shoulder, nodding. He shifted slightly on the overstuffed window seat, returning his attention to the ruins silhouetted against the twilight sky. After a moment’s further contemplation, he turned away, stood and reclaimed his seat across from Spike, at a table near the bar.

He picked up his pint, sipping thoughtfully. “Definitely sad,” he replied. “Kind of magnificent at the same time. What happened to it?”

“Henry the Eighth happened,” Spike said. “Like a pile of other places, the abbey got caught up in the dissolution of the monasteries. It was prominent in the north and paid for it. So, bye bye Byland, you might say.”

“Sad,” Xander repeated.”Also kind of disturbing.”

“Yep, and now tourists come in their droves and take their photos, and videos, and wander 'round, trying to picture what it might have been like. The clever ones book themselves a night in here, so they can get a decent meal, a bit to drink and a kip in a four poster bed. Better than Disneyland,” Spike said cynically. “Then they go back to Shitsville, Idaho, and wax lyrical about all the history they’ve seen.” He grinned. “It’s kind of civilised, really, though I’m guessing the monks wouldn’t have approved.”

“Talking of monks, or priests anyway, our one’s late.” Xander glanced at his watch. “He said he’d be here at half past.”

“So what? He’s a bit late,” Spike replied, taking a sip of his beer. “We’re six hours late, compared with when we originally told him we’d be here, when you first spoke to him on the phone. It would have been quicker walking from Lisbon than taking Air, bloody, Jalopy. Remind me never to use them again.”

Xander rolled his eye. “Well, I’m thinking after what you said to the flight attendant, we’re probably never going to be allowed to fly with them again, anyway.”

Spike chuckled. “Don’t know what you mean. I was perfectly civil. Not my fault she couldn’t take a joke. Her arse really was big in those trousers. Anyhow, stop fretting. The priest knew we were running late and he said he’d be here. It’s not far to the school. All sorts of things could delay him. It’s not like we’ve got a tough billet while we’re waiting for him.” Spike gestured around the bar with his beer glass to illustrate his point and Xander had to admit that the 19th century inn was a step up from the normal dives they patronised on their travels for the Council.

“I still don’t see why we couldn’t meet him at the school?”

“A priest, dealing in arcane books, inviting two complete strangers to meet him at a school, with a pile of good Catholic kids just ripe for corruption,” Spike snorted. “Yeah, that would be a great idea. Got to give the man credit. He might be a man of the cloth, but he’s not stupid. This place is nice, neutral ground."

“What if he doesn’t show?” Xander asked. “Or what if he won’t listen, or won’t sell us the book?”

Sighing, Spike put his beer down on the table. "If he doesn’t show, we’ll go up to the school, discretion be damned. If he won’t listen, we’ll persuade him. He’s a scholar, so he’ll be curious by nature. If he won’t sell us the book, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Stop fretting about ‘what ifs’ and finish your pint.”

Xander contemplated his pint of Black Sheep. “What is it with beer and weird names in this country?”

“Part of our charm and individuality. Black Sheep is a brilliant bitter. You could have had Old Peculiar, but Black Sheep seemed appropriate.”

Staring into the depths of the pale, golden beer, Xander inhaled the scent of hops. He glanced up to find Spike watching him. “Is that what I am now to Melina – a black sheep?”

Spike shook his head. “Maybe a little bit grey. She wasn’t really shocked at you killing Tiago. She was shocked at the way he set up her little one. She feels guilty that you felt you had to kill him for her.” He took a long gulp of his beer and leaned back, watching Xander under lowered lids. “She was shocked about the bite and the sex.”

“She didn’t realise at first. I was kind of hoping she wouldn’t put it together.”

“Fat chance of that. It took her a moment, but she got there. Saw the bite. Knew you’d killed. Give her some credit. She’s known about the supernatural all her life, so she put two and two together, and Bob’s your uncle, or in this case, Spike’s your sire. Like I say, she’s not stupid. One summer she was sleeping with you and the next...”

“Shut up Spike.” Xander took another sip of his beer, refusing to look up at Spike.

“Don’t think I will,” Spike said slowly. “You were big with the confessions about Tiago and the revelations about Dru, but not so much with coming clean about the rest. Good job Gabriella is good at jigsaws. Melina was just a moment behind.”

“Shut up Spike.” Xander repeated, still staring into his beer.

“Don’t want to sound like a broken record, but you can’t be a boy scout. Not now. We’re different. Different rules. Different needs. Different futures. “

Xander’s head jerked up. “You do sound like a broken record, so I’m not listening to this.”

“You’re going to have to eventually. It’ll happen again, I guarantee that.”

“What, you’re going to force me?” he asked, a hint of derision colouring his tone.

Spike shrugged. “Don’t have to force anything. It’ll just happen. It’s just the way it is. You made the first move. I was trying to give you time. That’s the soul working, but it’s just a control mechanism.”

“I’m not talking about this.”

“Sooner or later, you’re going to have to.”

Draining the last of his beer, Xander placed the empty glass on the table and stood. “I’ve spent years listening to Buffy talk about your soul. About how it made makes you better. I didn’t believe it then. Don’t believe it now. Not for you. Not for me. We’re both monsters. I might have made the first move, but don’t kid yourself that you were waiting for me to be ready. It wasn’t for my benefit. It was for Willow’s.” He glanced at his watch. “Our priestly scholar guy’s officially late. I’m going out to look.” He pulled out his wallet from his jacket pocket, extracted a five pound note and dropped it down in front of Spike. “Why don’t you have another pint? Consider it payment for services rendered.”

Opening the main door of the inn, Xander stepped outside and closed the door firmly behind him. He stood on the front step, wondering momentarily if Spike was going to follow him, then squared his shoulders and walked across the gravel at the front of the building. He paused in the middle of the quiet country road, head cocked, listening to the sounds of the countryside in the twilight. A horse neighed somewhere to the right. It could have been 100 yards away, or half a mile, the way the sound carried on the chill night air. Turning back to the old stone inn, through the window he could see Spike, still sitting in the bar, nursing a fresh pint. Spike didn’t look up, but Xander had no doubt that he knew that he was being watched. At that moment, Xander didn’t care. Turning his back, he glanced to his left and then his right, searching for a car, or bike, or any sign of their contact. The road stayed stubbornly empty of scholars bearing gifts.

A flurry of birds in the fields beyond the ruins of the old abbey caught his attention and, after only a few seconds hesitation, he strode across the road to the small wooden gate, scanning the remains of the ancient walls. The birds fluttered and wheeled, and there was the faint glow of what might have been a flame, over in the far corner. He glanced about again, inwardly mocking the stab of guilt he felt when he climbed the gate, ignoring the honesty box bolted to the top spar, for tourists to contribute to the upkeep of the ancient monument.

He skirted the ruins of a long wall, heading for the back of the abbey. The grass squelched under foot, the flooding at the edge of the field evidence of a heavy rainfall over the previous few days. Picking his way carefully through the old stones, he was conscious that he was getting further and further from the comfort of the bright lights and warmth of the inn. A picture of Spike, sipping his Black Sheep, came to mind. He clenched his jaw and walked forward, trying to kick the image of the irritating vampire out of his head. He stumbled slightly over a broken stone he hadn’t seen, cursing Spike for distracting him. Straightening up, he again saw the flare of a flame. Moth-like, he followed its call. He could see the barbed wire at the end of the abbey site, marking the boundary to the farmer’s field next door that was bereft of cattle at this time of night. Clever cows, he thought. Warm and snug in their barn, getting fed and fat for tomorrow’s milking. Not out in the cold and the dark, following hunches and getting away from annoying Sires.

The fire came into view, just beyond the next shattered wall and, as he drew near, he spied a dark shape lying in the shadows on the other side of the flames. He hurried forward, jumping lightly onto the top of the low wall.

A body lay face down on the wet grass, a heavy wool coat, half on and half off one shoulder. Slowly, Xander stepped off the stones and skirted the edge of the fire. He bent down, turning the body over. The man was chalk white, one hand gripped tightly on the strap of a battered, tan leather briefcase that had been torn open. His eyes stared sightlessly at the moon. Under the wet coat, he was dressed in black and if Xander hadn’t already guessed, the white dog collar at his neck proclaimed his profession as a man of God. Xander didn’t need to push his head to the side to know that there would be a wound at the neck, but a small voice in the back of his brain, that sounded uncannily like Giles, chided him on the dangers of assumptions and the importance of research. Unlike the endless nights in the high school library and the Magic Box, there wasn’t much research required as he gently tilted the dead man’s head to the right, contemplating the red gash across the jugular. He wondered fleetingly if priests ever had barbeques and had to stifle a hysterical laugh.

Closing the priest’s eyes, he reminded himself why they were supposed to meet. He reached for the open briefcase, but even a cursory examination showed that it was empty. Sighing, he hunkered next to the body and watched the flames dancing in the small fire, just feet away. He focused on the ashes and cursed. Launching himself forward, he hauled the remains of the fuel for the fire out of the flames, yelping when his prize burned his fingers and palms. He threw it down onto the wet ground and pulled clumps of grass free, trying to dampen the remaining flames. Finally, the fire extinguished, the heavy leather cover of an ancient book lay on the sodden earth, but when Xander carefully opened the binding, there was nothing left but ash and dust and scraps of parchment left illegible by fire and the damp night air.

He knelt on the wet grass, one hand on the burned out book, his eyes fixed on the body of the priest. He wanted to say something. To apologise for needing the man’s help. For asking him to meet them. For leading him to his death. He wanted to ask for forgiveness, in what had once been a place of worship, a light of the church in this hard land. But he was a monster. He didn’t deserve forgiveness. Now all he could do was atone.

The sound of footsteps on stone, in the silence of the night, broke him out of his reverie. He sprang to his feet and turned, expecting to see Spike. It wasn’t Spike. Drusilla stood on top of the low, broken wall, her back to the body of the ruins. Her eyes gleamed in the moonlight and she spread her arms wide, as if accepting homage from her audience of two – one undead and one dead. Xander started to move, to speak, to throw himself at her, but as the scattered thoughts of action tumbled in his head, he found that his feet were planted firmly on the wet grass, as if he had been planted and had grown tall and old in the lee of the ancient stones.

She stepped forward, jumped down from the wall and daintily picked her way through the tussocks of wet grass, every inch the princess, or the queen. Pausing in front of him, she lifted one white hand, tipped with silver, and ran it down the side of his face, caressing the edge of his eye patch, then down over his lips. She stepped back, a smile on her face, like the cat with a pitcher of cream. Xander couldn’t have spoken if his life depended on it.

“Oh my chick, so nearly grown,” she whispered, looking around as if worried that someone might overhear. “Almost out of the egg. Then you will fly.” She threw her hands in the air and spun in a circle. “Then you will soar.

“Did you like my present? I gave you presents before. All wrapped up in scarlet ribbons, but you didn’t thank me. No manners now. I remember 'please' and 'thank you'. Writing notes with pen, and ink, and parchment. Proper thank you for a proper present.” She wagged her finger under his nose like a headmistress to a naughty school boy. For a moment Xander thought she was going to smack him on the nose like a bad dog. “But boys today, no manners... no thanks... no decorum.”

She performed a few delicate dance steps to the side, then turned and jumped lightly up onto the remains of the wall, ignoring the body of the fallen scholar as she skipped over him. She turned and bowed to her audience. “Did you hear the priests wail, little one? Henry made them cry and the stones crumbled – ashes to ashes, dust to dust is all that’s left. Byland Abbey weeps. Byland, the little priests cried, and cursed, and prostrated themselves to their god. Do you want to come with me? Worship me. Bow down and cleave to me. Byland, my love. Say Byland. Say bye Byland. Kneel to the virgin. Prostrate yourself and pray to the light on the water.”

She jumped off the wall and moved behind him, whispering in his ear. Xander shivered but he couldn’t move, as her voice oozed down the length of his spine. “Tell William. Tell my Spike. Tell him he won’t find any light at the bottom of the mine, but oh what mighty lanterns they’ve built. Grace to the lady. Bow to the mother. Worship to the virgin. Bye Byland. Sing your siren song to the sea.”

He felt a soft kiss land on the back of his neck and, against his will, his eye drooped shut, just for a moment, but it was enough. A faint cry of “Ask my Spike. Then come to me, my loves,” floated back on the night air.

Suddenly, Xander felt like he was waking for a dream. He whirled around, but there was nothing but the ruins of the old stones, the ashes of a fire, the remains of an ancient and now useless book, and the body of the hapless, scholarly priest who had committed no crime, other than to be a possessor of arcane knowledge.

He stood over the body and struggled with his conscience. He knew that he should run to the inn and raise the alarm, to give the man the attention and care that he deserved. But the pragmatist that had developed in all the years he’d been a Scooby knew that he couldn’t afford to draw the attention and possibly allow someone else to get hurt. He knelt and whispered an apology to the dead man, before slipping off his coat and wrapping the remains of the book in its thick woollen folds. Standing, he kicked at the embers of the fire and, with a shiver, he headed back towards the inn.

Much as he didn’t want to, he needed to talk to Spike and they needed to leave while the darkness held. Before someone else was killed because of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N**  
>  If you are curious about what Byland Abbey looks like, check out the end of this chapter on my LJ, where there are a couple of pics I took on a very cold November day back in 2007. It really is beautiful and very eerie. I’d been wanting to use it in a story ever since I took these photos. You can find the pretties right [here...](http://sparrow2000.livejournal.com/109451.html)  
> 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander is still coming to terms with the events in [Magpie](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sparrow2000&keyword=Magpie&filter=all), but forces outside his control seem disinclined to leave him alone.

**Mockingbird: Chapter 11**

Spike was draining his pint when Xander walked back into the bar and leaned against the wall by the door as casually as he could, given he had just left a murder scene. Putting his glass down on the table, Spike shook his head at the barman’s question about another drink and ambled across the floor. Xander waited. He had to admit that Spike could do casual, nonchalant even, a lot better than he could.

“So,” Spike said. “Worked off your snit, did you?”

“You could say that,” Xander replied shortly. His hands clamped down hard on the book in his arms, wrapped in his coat like some ridiculous present. “Enough to know that we have to leave.”

“Do we now?” Spike crossed his own arms. His shoulders were back and his lips twitched, half way between a grin and a sneer. “And why’s that?”

“Please Spike, not now. We need to go.” Xander turned and pulled open the outside door, stepping out into the dark, heading for the car without looking to see if Spike was following. The creak of the door opening and shutting behind him, told him that Spike was.

He paused by the door of the rental vehicle, cursing quietly under his breath when he realised that Spike had the keys. Glancing back, he saw Spike standing several feet away, watching him. “We need to leave,” Xander repeated. “Give me the keys.”

Spike shook his head. “Don’t think so. If anyone is driving here, it’s going to be me. You look like you’ve seen a ghost and you smell like a boy scout on bonfire night. What’s going on?”

Xander slumped back against the side of the car. “I found our priest,” he said tiredly. “In the abbey. Dead.” He unwrapped his coat, showing Spike the charred remains of the leather binding. “Seems an old, magical book makes good kindling. There’s nothing left but the cover.” He ran his hand over the scorched leather, aware that Spike was still watching him, before looking up. “She was there. Dru. She killed the priest. Left him dead on the wet ground.” He could almost hear her laughing in the back of his mind and he shuddered. “She burned the book, Spike. It’s not any use to us now, if it ever was.”

“Guess we’ll never know,” Spike said slowly. “Is that it? Did she say anything?”

“She rambled and whispered like she always does. The usual cryptic bullshit.”

“So, she knew we were coming.” Spike sounded surprisingly like Gabriella, making questions into statements, because they’d both seen and done too much to be surprised.

“I might as well be electronically tagged,” Xander said bitterly. “She knows where I am. Wherever, whenever. She always knows.” Dropping his coat on the ground, he held the remains of the book in both hands, gripping hard. With a strangled cry he threw it at Spike. He wasn’t surprised when Spike caught it.

Spike stared down, his long fingers white against the charred remains of the leather cover. The fingers drummed once, then stopped. Spike looked back up at Xander. “Pick up your coat,” he said abruptly, walking quickly around to the right hand side of the car. “We should get out of here. Head back towards York. You can give me the full story on the way.” He fished the keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door, wedging the remains of the book between the seat and the handbrake before sliding in behind the wheel. He shoved the key in the ignition.

Xander stood for a second, looking out into the dark, before stooping to pick up his coat. He pulled open the passenger door and bent down.

Spike looked across at him. “Get in,” he said and started the engine. Xander did as he was told and stared straight ahead, the image of the dead priest, a burning book, and Drusilla spinning in the moonlight, running through his head like a macabre ticker-tape as they drove headlong into the night.

“Where are we?” he asked finally, when the motion of the car slowing down and stopping brought him back to himself. He looked out of the window at the small rest area, on the edge of a hedged in field.

“About half way to York,” Spike replied. “You drifted for a while. So, you going to tell me what happened?”

Leaning his head back against the headrest, Xander sighed. “I guess so. It’s just…just too much. You know?” he said, rolling his head to look sideways at Spike.

“Yeah, I know. I was with her for a hundred years. I know how she can get under your skin, until it’s hard to know which way is up.”

“That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.” Xander looked down, noticing the charred remains of the book cover. He pulled it free from its resting place and laid it carefully across his knee, his fingers tracing the embossed design that was barely discernible on the charred leather. “This was our lead,” he said wearily. “Now it’s gone and there’s another body to add to the count.” He studied his hands for a second, then turned to look at Spike. “You know I have to go after her, don’t you? I can’t stand for this to go on anymore. There are so many people dead and, whatever you say, it’s still my fault in the end. I’ll understand if you won’t help, but please don’t try to stop me.”

“If you think I’m going to stand by while you play the tragic hero, you’re even more deluded than I thought.” Spike replied. “You know the Witch will stake me, the first chance she gets, if I let you go off on your own.”

Xander’s mouth twisted in a faint smile. “I’ll handle Willow. But I’m serious, Spike. I can’t go on like this. I have to try to stop it.” He glanced back down at the book and closed his eye for a second before looking back up. “I know that you loved her. I can feel that running through me, in a way I never understood before. She wants us both, but perhaps she’ll be happy if it’s just me. If I can get close, I can end it.”

Shaking his head, Spike grimaced. “It’s whose end you’re after that worries me. And that takes us right back to the Witch coming after me with a nice bit of polished oak you probably carved for her. I know what you’re saying. Appreciate the concern, even. I understand that you need to go after her. But you’re not ready yet. Not on your own. I know my Dru, she’ll not let you close on your own. She wants a package deal, so that’s what we’ll give her.” Spike’s voice was firm and determined, but his knuckles were white on the edge of the steering wheel as he spoke. Xander decided not to push him any further.

“Okay," he sighed. “I guess we should call Willow, let her know where we are. Then I’ll just have to explain what happened, the once. Maybe you can work out between the two of you what we do next.” Without waiting for a reply, Xander dug his cell phone out of his pocket and hit speed dial one. It only rang twice.

“Xander?” Willow’s voice was breathless and tinny at the end of the phone. “Where are you? Did you meet with the priest? Did you get the book? Did it help?”

“Whoa, slow down Wills. You want to do your speaker phone mojo? Spike’s here with me.” He pushed another button and placed the cell phone on the dashboard near the stereo speakers. After a slight silence he heard Willow muttering a few words, then the sound of her breathing in and out spilled out of the speakers, loud and clear. He felt like he could reach out and touch her, or spend hours listening to the sound of her just being alive.

“Okay,” she said. “One mojo’d phone, check. Now you can answer my questions? Did everything go okay?”

“Not so much, Wills. The priest was dead. I found him in the abbey grounds. The book was burned.” He heard her curse under her breath. “Drusilla was there, Will. She was there at the abbey. She knew where to look and she waited. She killed him and she burned the book.” He knew his voice was getting louder, echoing inside the small car.

“Xander?” Willow said, but he ploughed on, not giving her a chance to continue.

“We’ll never know if it was any use now. It could all be another mind fuck, but we’ll never know because she burned…the…book.”

“Is there anything left?” Willow said softly, her voice barely a whisper in the dark.

Xander stared blindly out into the night and Spike intervened. “Just the binding. The leather is tough as old boots, so it didn’t burn easily. But the contents are ashes.”

“Shit.”

“That’s about the size of it, Witch. Unless you’ve got any other magical books up your sleeve that’ll give us an idea how to block Dru, or shut her down?”

A sigh, soft as a whisper, came over the airwaves. “No…no I don’t. I’m sorry. I was so sure the family magic would help. Maybe if you can give me some more time, I might…”

“We’re out of time, Will,” Xander interrupted. “The only family magic we have is our connection and if I need to use it to stop her, then I will. If we can work out where the hell she is.”

“Xander,” Willow’s voice was stronger now, but there was still a hesitancy that he didn’t like. He wished that he could see her in person. He felt guilty that he’d shouted, but what was one more guilt to add to the whole. “Did she do anything? Say anything that might help?”

“She laughed and she rambled. You know what she’s like,” he said bitterly. “Kept repeating the name of the abbey, like some kind of mantra. ‘Byland. Say Byland. Then something about kneeling to the virgin and bowing to the mother.” He paused, rubbing restlessly at the skin below his eye patch. “I’d say it was all drivel, but after all her other ramblings, I think it probably did mean something. I just don’t know what.”

“Okay, did she say anything else?”

Spike shifted restlessly in his seat and Xander turned his head. “She said I had to ask Spike. Actually, to tell William. To tell Spike.”

“Tell me what?”

Xander tipped his head back, making himself relive the scene. “That there’s no light at the bottom of a mine…” he said. “That one seems pretty self evident, to be honest. Then something about they’d built lanterns. Whoever they are? Mighty lanterns, she said. And something about praying to the light on the sea.”

“Okay,” Willow said. “That sounds a bit bonkers even for Dru, but we know she always has her reasons, even if they’re screwed up to us. Spike, does that mean anything to you? Anything at all?”

Spike sat silently in the driver’s seat, his eyes closed. Xander could almost see him sifting through the words of his mad Sire. Xander watched one hand snake into the pocket of his duster and pull out the Zippo and cigarette packet. Without opening his eyes, Spike extracted one, lit it and took a long pull.

Willow’s voice broke the silence. “I’m guessing William was never down a mine, so it’s probably a metaphor for something.”

Spike’s eyes flew open. “The closest William ever came to a mine was the coal scuttle the servants would bring in for the fire.” He gazed at the lit end of his fag. “But I have,” he said slowly. “I wasn’t long turned,” he said, turning to look at Xander. “1880ish, we were here in Yorkshire. Angelus was pissed off because I’d stirred up the locals. The four of us finished up hiding down a sodding mine shaft. Her royal highness, Queen Darla, was not amused, which means she bitched at Angelus. He got snotty with me and Dru.” He smiled, like he was remembering something close to his heart. “First time I ever heard about a Slayer was down the bottom of that mine.”

The sound of a throat being cleared from the other end of the phone brought Spike back to himself. “Sorry,” he said. “Not exactly the memory you’re wanting. But yeah, that’s the only time I’ve been down a mine. Dru always wanted to go back. Said that the layers of rocks whispered to her. That she could feel the weight of the centuries in the ground above our heads and hear the coal being born. After that little adventure we finished up kicking around Europe and Russia for a while. Then me and Dru got bored and left them to it. Came back into England by boat in the mid 1890’s. Dru ate most of the crew and we finished up crashing into the docks at Whitby. Caused quite a stir.” Xander heard Willow stifle a giggle and he watched Spike grin in response. “We spent some time travelling. Dru loved the steam train. Took it right up the coast - Saltburn, Redcar, Tynemouth and Whitley Bay, all genteel facades that wouldn’t know a monster until it walked up and swallowed them whole. There was so much building going on. So much engineering.” He glanced over at Xander. “Victorian engineering,” he said with a smirk.

Willow’s voice came over the air, the giggle from the moment before replaced with a reproving tone Xander recognised from years of unfinished homework. “Fascinating as this is, Spike, we don’t really have time for the history lesson.”

“Give me a mo’, I’m trying to work out why she’d mention the mine and how it fits with the other stuff. “ He closed his eyes again. “We were in the mine. Then we went abroad. Then we came back and Dru was so giddy about all the industry. We went up the north east coast and – “ His head jerked back, thumping hard on the driver seat headrest. He pulled sharply on his cigarette. “Fuck. She can be so damn literal sometimes, it makes my head hurt. Even when she’s rambling, there’s always something. Sometimes just the whisper of a thread, but sometimes a rope so strong, you could hang yourself from it.”

“Jesus, Spike, stop rambling and tell us.”

“The light on the sea. All the stuff about kneeling to the virgin and worshiping the mother. St Mary’s. She’s talking about bloody St Mary’s. It’s a lighthouse, on an island, off Whitley Bay. 1896/97 or there about - they were just starting to build it, when we were there. Dru was fascinated by the idea that they were building this tower into the sky. That it would be able to sing to the ships and keep them safe. She’s heading for St Mary’s. Fuck,” he repeated. “She must have laughed herself silly when we headed for the priest to get the book and arranged to meet him by the abbey, rather than the school. I know how she thinks. ‘Byland’ - she’s playing with words – ‘bye land’. The lighthouse is on an island. You have to get to it by a causeway at low tide. Bloody, bye land. That’s where she wants us."

“Then that’s where we’re going,” Xander said. “How far is it?”

“Couple of hours driving at most. We can be there long before dawn.”

“Spike,” Willow’s voice was urgent, even at a distance. “I should come up. I can be there in a few hours. I need some time to get my strength back, because I’m pretty tapped out at the moment. We had some excitement of our own while you were in Lisbon. Will you wait for me?”

“Stay where you are Wills. You’re needed in London. We’ll be fine.”

“But Xander…”

“Please, Willow. We’ll be fine. This has to be done, and it has to be done by me.” He glanced over at Spike. “By us,” he amended.

“Xander,” she tried again.

“Please, Wills.”

“Okay,” she sighed. “But Spike, if anything happens to him, there won’t be a mine deep enough to hide in, understand.”

“Loud and clear, Witch, loud and clear.”

“And Xander, I should tell you before you go. Gabriella called. She wanted me to give you a message.”

“What did she say?.” Xander wasn’t sure he wanted to hear, but he knew Willow wouldn't let him go until he asked.

“She said to give Melina time.”

“Okay,” he replied. He didn't know what else to say.

“She also said…she said she would see you the next time you were in Venice.”

“I’m guessing that message was just for the boy, yeah?” Spike said cynically.

Willow sighed. “I don’t know, Spike. I hope it’s for both of you, but she wasn’t specific, so I guess you can interpret it any way you like. Gabriella doesn’t usually do ambiguity, so I suspect leaving it open to interpretation was deliberate.”

“Well isn’t that just peachy of her,” Spike replied with a swift glance over to Xander. “We’ve got to get going, so let’s leave the speculation for now, yeah?"

Xander leaned forward, his hand resting next to the phone as if he could almost reach out and touch his oldest friend through the Aether. “Love you Wills,” he said. “Give my thanks to Gabriella, if you are speaking to her again. We’ve got to go. The clock’s ticking on the darkness and we’ve got some ground to cover.”

“Be careful, please,” she pleaded.

“Always. Love you,” Xander said again and pressed the disconnect button before she could say anything else. He shoved the phone back in his jacket pocket. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go. We’ve got a lighthouse to find. Then we’re going to finish this, once and for all."

Spike started the engine and maneuvered the car back into the road.

Xander watched as the digital clock on the dashboard ticked down and he thought about four white plaques in a Victorian tomb, in London. He wondered if the next two plaques would belong to them.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander is still coming to terms with the events in [Magpie](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sparrow2000&keyword=Magpie&filter=all), but forces outside his control seem disinclined to leave him alone.

**Mockingbird: Chapter 12**

The headlights of the rental car cut through the darkness as Spike swept into the empty parking lot, passing the pay and display machine. Xander noted that they didn’t stop to get a ticket. The car rolled to a halt at the furthest point from the gate to the main road.

Spike switched off the engine and opened his door. “Right, here we are then,” he said.

“Here we are,” Xander echoed. He opened his own door and eased out, stretching out the kinks from being too tall for the too small car. Taking an unneeded breath, he let the crisp, sea air fill his lungs. He glanced across at Spike. “Do we have a plan?”

“First thing is to hike along the top of the cliff. The lighthouse is out there.” Spike gestured into the darkness to his left.

“Couldn’t we have got closer?”

“Yep, but there’s not exactly a lot of traffic around here at this time of night, for us to blend in. No point in tipping our hand.”

“You really don’t think she knows we’re here?” Xander asked dubiously.

Spike shrugged. “There is that,” he acknowledged. “But we might as well give ourselves any edge we can get. Who knows, maybe we got here first.”

Before Xander could muster a reply, Spike strode off into the darkness. With a sigh, Xander rolled his shoulders, shut the car door and followed.

The path meandered along the edge of a sea-side golf course –‘links’, Spike called it. Xander cursed for the third time in as many minutes as his foot hit an errant golf ball, that had no business being so close to the cliff without actually having the decency to topple over the edge. He could hear the swish of the water, but when he looked out into the darkness, the sea was far out. The moon reflected on the nighttime, alien landscape of the wet sand, the tangled pieces of seaweed and driftwood, and the detritus of day trippers, long since gone home and tucked up warm in their beds.

After 10 minutes of steady walking, they hit a concrete path at the end of the cliff and descended cautiously, looking for any sign of life. But there was just the ever present sound and smell of the distant sea and a faint light, several hundred feet ahead, that seemed to float somewhere above the sand.

Xander looked at Spike questioningly. “That light looks a bit low to be any good to ships,” he said.

“The lighthouse isn’t operational any more, otherwise there would be a bloody great lamp blinking on and off. There’s a pile of places like this all over the country, that are museum pieces now. But there are a couple of houses on the island. The light is probably from them.” He stared out into the darkness before looking back at Xander. “Right then,” he said determinedly. “Let’s get this show on the road. The causeway’s pretty clear for now. We’re lucky the tide’s out. We might as well get this over and done with.”

“Spike, it doesn’t really matter about the tide. It’s not like we have to breathe.” Xander chuckled. He hated how nervous it sounded.

“Yeah, but I don’t like getting my boots wet, if I can help it.” Spike lit up a cigarette with a flourish and grinned cockily. Xander was intimately familiar with bravado.

Spike started forward, but Xander grabbed him by the shoulder, forcing him to stop before he had taken more than a step. “Spike, are you okay? I can do this. You don’t have to come.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Going in there like High Noon.” He pulled at the lapels of his duster, squaring it on his shoulders. “Well, I’ve got news for you, mate. I’m no Grace Kelly and you’re no Gary Cooper. Never was a Zinnemann fan. Not enough bite, if you know what I mean. I’m more of a Peckinpah man.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

Xander gazed at Spike for a moment longer, trying to find something else to say. But there were no words, so he nodded and walked past Spike and out onto the causeway. He could hear the clump, clump, clump of Spike’s boots at his back as they made their way across the narrow strip of concrete that was the pathway to the island. They moved steadily towards the lighthouse and he found a bizarre comfort in the dull thump of leather on stone.

The narrow causeway curved to the left near the end, but Xander looked up to his right, his eyes fixed on the luminous white tower of the lighthouse gleaming in the moonlight. Suddenly, he stopped dead and looked back at Spike. “Look at that,” he said quietly, pointing upwards.

Spike looked up, studying the night sky and the lighthouse above them. He glanced back at Xander and then back up. “Fuck.” At the top of the tower, a faint light flickered in the darkness, seemingly ebbing and flowing like the tide. “Looks like there’s someone up there,” he said eventually. “If the place was still in operation, I’d say maybe it was the lighthouse keeper. I don’t suppose it’s a bunch of tourists, who’ve decided to camp out for the night.”

Xander smiled, but he knew it was strained, even without the look on Spike’s face. “I’m guessing not. So we’ve got a reception committee and not much room for maneouvre.”

“We could always wait at the bottom for her, or them, to come down,” Spike replied, but there was no conviction in his voice.

Shaking his head, Xander turned back to the light. “No. I’m tired of waiting. She wants us to go up, so I’m going up. One way or the other, this will be over before I come down.”

They found the first body on the doorstep to the small museum shop, at the base of the lighthouse. The sign on the inside of the glass said it was open on Saturdays and Sundays. Xander noted in a corner of his mind that it was Tuesday. The woman was slumped in a graceless heap, face pressed against the base of the door, blood dripping slowly onto the ground from the gaping wound on the side of her neck. Xander didn’t need to close his eyes to picture the victim clawing hopelessly at the door, desperate for safety and sanctuary, before her murderer delivered the killing wound.

“Poor cow,” Spike murmured. “Never stood a chance.” He turned the handle on the shop door and pushed it open. The body fell forward with a dull thud. Spike stepped over it and walked into the gloom of the shop.

Xander stared down at the woman, then looked back up to find Spike watching him from just beyond the threshold. “What should we do with her?” he asked.

“Can’t do much. Not like we can bury her. Best haul her properly inside. No point in leaving her out. Don’t want anyone falling over her, then suing the place because there’s no sign saying ‘Please Mind the Corpses’."

“You’re sick, you know that?” Shaking his head, Xander bent down and grasped the woman under her arms, pulling her fully inside the building. He laid the body on the floor along the far wall, underneath a shelf of fluffy, toy seabirds and a rack of postcards. Somehow, he didn’t think it was a montage that would make it into the next edition of the local tourist magazine.

Standing up, he glanced across at Spike. “So I guess that was probably the appetiser?”

Spike shrugged. “Knowing Dru, it might be the party favour.”

Xander shuddered, but Spike was already turning away. “Come on, we’re just giving her more time.”

They moved quietly through the shop, stepping over knocked down stands of tourist leaflets, following a gaudy line of blood painted on the floor, like aircraft emergency lighting, guiding them forward. The blood snaked out through a door at the far end of the shop and on through a children’s play area, where white paper and brass rubbings of shells and sea creatures were daubed with red.

“All this blood didn’t come out of that body back there,” Xander said softly.

“No it didn’t.”

Easing forward, Xander got a sudden sense of space and height. There was a sound of drip, drip, drip in the gloom. He felt his demon come forward as the smell of blood and other, less pleasant odours permeated his senses. He gripped Spike’s arm. As one they walked in the direction of the sound and the smell.

The old light mechanism was displayed for the tourists to see, in the middle of the circular floor, its multiple lamps mounted high on a central shaft. Under normal circumstances, the craftsman in Xander would have been fascinated by the intricacies and simplicity of the machine that had once topped the lighthouse. Now, instead of saving lives, the machine had become a gallows. A body dangled from one of the metal struts holding a lamp, hanging from a sturdy leather belt. It didn’t take vampire senses to realise that the unfortunate man hadn’t died from strangulation; his throat had been cut and his stomach slit from bottom to top, gutting him like a sacrificial animal.

“I think we found your appetiser, pet.”

Without looking at Spike, Xander walked forward, his eyes fixed on the body, hanging like a grotesque marionette. “Help me get him down,” he said.

“That’s not going to help him. He’s not been dead long, but there’s nothing you can do.”

“I can cut him down. I’m not leaving him hanging here, like a side of beef in a butcher’s shop.” Xander grabbed the body around the waist with one arm, taking the weight, while trying to undo the belt with the other hand. He tried to ignore the ooze of blood from the stomach wound as he struggled with the buckle, but then another hand batted his away, and he concentrated on holding the body while Spike worked on the belt. After a seemingly endless minute, Spike grunted and the body dropped, pulling Xander to the floor before he could brace himself. “Thanks for the warning,” he muttered, pulling himself up into a kneel. He stared down at the man who’s only mistake, like the woman on the door step and the scholar in the abbey grounds, was to gain the attention of a crazy woman, intent on creating her own hellish sideshow.

Standing up, Xander stared at Spike in confusion as he knelt down, pulling the dead man’s jacket straight and digging his hands into the pockets.

“What the hell are you doing? You can’t loot the dead,” Xander whispered.

“Not looting. Just seeing if he’s got anything useful. To Xander’s surprise Spike discarded a wallet, throwing it on the ground, but pocketed some string, a set of keys and an open packet of Marlboros.

Bending down, Xander picked up the wallet, flicking through the contents, pausing over the pieces of plastic and cardboard that proved that the man had existed. That he had lived. There was a library card, an expired bus pass and a couple of photographs of a small boy with a dog. Xander’s hand started to shake, but he carefully returned the photos to the wallet and continued his examination. A small, creased ID card was shoved into the back compartment. “He was the caretaker,” he murmured.

Spike glanced up. “Poor bastard. Probably thought he was on a cushy number. Pound to a penny that’s his wife out there,” he said, before going back to turning out the dead man’s other pocket.

Xander knew it was useless to protest, so he laid the wallet back down beside the body and stood up. Leaving Spike to his own devices he took a look around, noticing the peeling paint on the walls and the faint glow from the moon that glimmered through a small window, part way up the side of the tower. It drew his eye upwards. If he’d been breathing, he would have stopped.

“Spike,” he said. “Look up.”

Still kneeling on the ground next to the corpse, Spike looked up. “Bugger,” he said.

He rose to his feet in one smooth motion and Xander glared at him.“When you said ‘lighthouse’, I was expecting those windy steps going round and round a central core. You know, the type you always get in horror movies, when the hero can’t tell if the baddie is around the next curve? I didn’t expect that.”

The inside of the lighthouse was hollow, stretching up as far as they could see, making him dizzy. An old, iron staircase clung to the wall like a limpet, spiraling upwards, reaching for the heavens. Xander wanted to be sick and Drusilla spun in his head, her arms outstretched, weaving patterns in the air that seemed to ooze in and out of the metal stairway, making it shift and roil like snakes on a boiling sea.

“Xander?” The voice was far away and Xander’s head swam, until the voice came again, this time with a hard shake on his shoulder. “Xander, pay attention.”

Rubbing his hand over his face, Xander focused on Spike. “Shit. Sorry. I just…just got lost for a minute…” He faltered and rubbed his face again. “I can’t take much more of this. It needs to stop.”

Spike nodded. “So we make it stop.” He lifted his hand, like he was going to grab Xander’s shoulder again, but then the gesture grew soft and he pushed Xander’s hair out of his eyes. He turned away quickly. “Let’s get going. I’ll go first. You watch my back.”

Mounting the first step, Spike looked upwards and sighed before taking the next step, and the next, and the next. Xander followed behind. There was no sound in the hollow stone shell, apart from the clang of boots on metal and Spike’s muttered, “I hate fucking heights,” as they climbed.

Part way up Xander told himself to keep looking forward, but as soon as the thought entered his head his body reacted and his eyes were inexorably drawn downwards. The floor below seemed a mile away and the body of the dead man lay stiff and cold, a discarded doll, abandoned for the lure of a better game. Stumbling, Xander grabbed at the rail and steadied himself. Spike glanced back. “You all right?” Xander nodded and swallowed the bile in his throat as they climbed again.

They reached half way and Xander knew that the only way was upwards. If he stopped now, he’d be frozen, unable to go forward or go back. The hysteria at the thought of being stuck forever on the stair, a bizarre addition to the museum, nearly made him choke. He focused on Spike’s back and the thump of footfalls on metal. His right hand slid along the railing, knuckle white, while his left, palm flattened, skimmed against the uneven surface of the peeling paint on the curving stone wall. And they climbed.

Spike stopped and Xander gripped the railing, steadying himself with his other hand which involuntarily came to rest at the base of Spike’s spine. The narrow door to the top of the lighthouse lay ahead. Grey and non-descript, it stood slightly ajar and there was the flicker of a flame, that could have been a candle, or possibly a kerosene lamp, making the opening glow faintly in the darkness. He heard Spike take a deep breath and push the door open, stepping off the top step and over the threshold with a swagger that Xander knew he didn’t feel. Xander followed.

The first thing he saw was the trio of thick, creamy candles at the north, west, and east points of the circular room. They flickered in the draft from the open door, casting crazy shapes on the thick walls and reflecting back off the windows. A fourth candle lay burned out at the south end of the room, just inside the door.

The second thing he saw was a shadow detach itself from the darkness between the north and west candles. The room wasn’t large and Xander wondered how he could have missed her, as Drusilla stepped into the light and extended her arms in a parody of welcome. Dressed in black silk, her hair shone in the candle light, soft ringlets brushing over her shoulders and caressing the top of her breasts. Her skin was white and her dress and hair were dark as the night outside, but her lips were daubed with scarlet and, when she moved and swayed in the candlelight, her bare feet left patterns of rusty red on the dull grey of the concrete floor.

“I knew you’d come,” she whispered. “Clever boys. My clever boys. My Spike’s always been a scholar. Couldn’t beat that out of you, could they, sweet boy? You’ve got a sweet boy of your own now. Got a little puppy to follow you around.” She snapped her teeth. “Bad dog. Bad, bad puppy. Needs to be trained. Needs to come to heel. Needs to learn how to walk on a leash.”

She glided forward and, just like in the abbey, Xander found himself frozen when she shifted behind him. “Shall I train you, puppy? Put you in a collar and make you beg?” He could feel her cold breath on the back of his neck and his eyes met Spike’s, but neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. He felt the scrape of her fangs against his neck, over the point where Spike had bitten him in Tiago’s workshop in Lisbon. He shuddered as the scrape of teeth was replaced by the softest of butterfly kisses in the same spot. “Someone was naughty,” she murmured, her mouth still against his skin. “Tasting forbidden fruit. Eating the sweetmeats before you’ve cleared up your plate.” She kissed his neck again and danced away, spinning from one candle to another, until she came to rest in front of Spike.

“Can you count the candles? Can you add them up? There’s one and two and three. One for me. One for you. One for our baby boy. There was a fourth. It was so bright,” she whispered. “Bright as an angel, but it’s all burned out now. All gone,” she said sadly.

“Dru,” Spike started tentatively.

She smiled. “Did you miss me, my pet?” Her eyes were wide and innocent, her hands clasped behind her back like a school girl on her best behavior.

Spike nodded his head slowly before flicking a glance at Xander, then back to Drusilla’s face. “Yeah, I missed you, Dru. Missed you a lot.”

She unclasped her hands and clapped them in front of her with childish glee.

“But that was a while ago. A lot’s changed since then.” He looked away, fixing his gaze on Xander and dug in the pocket of his duster, pulling out the caretaker’s packet of Marlboros and his Zippo. He lit up before looking back at her. “You left, Dru. You don’t get to call me back now. You missed your chance.”

Grinning slyly, Dru plucked the cigarette out of Spike’s mouth and took a long puff. “See, my pet? There is nothing you can have, that I can’t take. There’s nothing you can take, that I can’t have. Not slayers, or watchers, or bright, shiny keys to the world.” She glanced back at Xander. “Not tarnished errand boys.” She paused and looked around, before putting her finger to her lips as if they would dare to interrupt her. She leaned forward. “Not witches,” she whispered.

Xander felt his scream come from a thousand miles away. When it hit, it echoed in the small chamber, bouncing off the walls like cannon fire. He moved quicker than thought, as if the sound had unfrozen time, and launched himself at Drusilla, crashing into her and smashing her head hard against the crisscrossed window at her back. His hands clutched for her throat, but she twisted, shoving him back against the window in his turn, her hand in his hair and another clutching at his balls through the crotch of his jeans.

“Not nice,” she growled. “Not nice at all. You’ll need to be punished, pet. Put in your kennel without any supper. Bad dog.”

Xander brought his hands up, shoving hard at her chest, trying to push her away, but the hand at his balls gripped harder and he stilled, just for a second, gasping for un-needed air.

“See,” she growled, digging her fingers deeper into his hair. “Bad dogs can be trained. Going to roll over and show me your belly, my pet?”

Xander shook his head as much as he could in her grip. “Going to send you to hell,” he growled back. He shoved again, ignoring the pain between his legs, trying to distract her from noticing Spike, who was striding across the small room, stake in hand. He tried to pull free of the hand in his hair, but she hauled his head back and released her hold on his crotch to grab hold of his chin, keeping him still until all he could see was her face. All he could see were her eyes. He was caught and she swallowed him whole. Time seemed to stretch and contract like elastic and she kissed him gently and murmured in his ear. Helpless to resist, he spun them around, his back instead of hers facing outwards as Spike brought the stake down.

He screamed as the wood bit deep into his flesh and collapsed to the floor. His head swam with the pain, but after the first wave he opened his eyes. He saw Spike struggling with Drusilla. She clawed at his face, her teeth bared and her eyes blazing with hate.

Struggling to his feet, Xander twisted his hand back, groping for the stake where it was lodged below his shoulder blade, close to the heart, but not close enough to kill. A part of his brain promised that he would mock Spike’s aim, if they got out in one piece. His fingers closed around the wood and he hauled, pulling it free, his hand shaking and the stake slick with his blood. He tried to steady himself, to find a place in his mind where Drusilla didn’t whisper, but her voice stretched and oozed in his head and he swayed.

Spike and Dru cannoned off the wall, locked in their own personal war. Xander grabbed at the edge of a window, trying to keep himself upright, but the glass was slick and cold and his hands skidded across it as his legs gave way. The gore stained stake slipped from his trembling fingers. It slid across the floor towards the door. Throwing himself on his side, he tried to catch it, but it teetered on the edge for a fragment of a second. Then it was gone.

Xander didn’t wait to hear it hit the ground below. Turning, he pushed himself up, looking around frantically for another weapon, before grabbing a candle. With two short strides he crossed the room.

Spike was against the wall, his neck bent back and blood running down his face as Dru bent her head, her fangs gleaming in the moonlight. “First the big, bad grizzly bear, then the cub,” she murmured. “Going to put a ring through your nose and make you dance to my tune.” Her teeth bore down and her body swayed, thrumming with power and passion. Xander thrust the candle up into her hair.

Drusilla wailed, batting at her ringlets as the flames took hold. Spike shoved her backwards and her head crashed against one of the window. The sound of breaking glass and the smell of burning hair filled the small room. Spike grabbed Xander and pushed him towards the door. “Move your arse,” he yelled.

Xander stared at him uncomprehendingly. “But this is our chance.”

“No, it’s not.” Spike shoved again, propelling him towards the doorway. “Get out,” he shouted. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Xander wanted to protest, but the look on Spike’s face brooked no argument. He turned, grabbing the top of the handrail as he descended the first few steps, before pausing and looking back up. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back where the blood from the stake wound had dried tacky on his skin. There was a scream and a crash and Spike hurtled out of the door above him, hauling it shut and hanging on for grim death as the heavy wood shook and shivered from blows on the other side. Spike looked down. “Going to have to give me a hand, pet. Don’t know if I can hold this on my own.”

Nodding, Xander started back up the few steps that separated them. His hand, still slick with his own blood, slipped on the rail. He stumbled, crashing to his knees and Spike grabbed the back of his jacket with one hand and hung onto the door handle with the other. Xander looked down and the body of the dead man still lay where they’d left him, his wallet discarded on the floor beside him. The stake, its tip dark with blood, lay at his feet.

Xander looked up. “The keys, Spike,” he shouted. “You took some keys from the caretaker’s pocket. Maybe one of them locks the door?” He shifted, ignoring the scream of pain in his shoulder and reached past Spike to grab the door handle with both hands, while Spike groped in his pockets. After a long moment he produced a bunch of keys and Xander prayed to any deity that might listen, that the right key was there.

The first key didn’t fit. The door shuddered as Drusilla used all her strength, trying to haul it open. He could hear her curses through the thick planks of wood. The second key didn’t fit. He felt like he could almost hear the timbers screaming as she threw herself against them, and breathed a sigh of relief that the door opened inwards. Spike lifted a third key. He shoved it in the lock. Xander braced himself against the flimsy protection of the metal railing of the staircase that spiraled away below them. Spike tried the key once. It didn’t turn. The door shook and shuddered. He tried the key again. Xander felt his hands start to slip on the handle. Spike tried the key a third time. It slipped home. The tumblers clicked and rolled into place.

Xander’s hands slid off the handle and he slumped back onto the step at Spike’s feet. Spike slid down the door, his cheek resting against it and closed his eyes.

“I don’t understand,” Xander said breathlessly. We’ve locked her in, but she’s strong. That door won’t hold her forever.”

Spike opened his eyes. Xander thought that he looked every one of his 100 plus years. “Doesn’t have to hold her for long, pet. Just for the next 10 minutes or so.” He nodded back down the stairwell to the small window in the outside wall that they’d passed on the way up. “Sun’ll be up shortly. There’s no place to hide in there. That’s the beauty of a lighthouse. It lets the light out, but it also lets it in.”

Spike closed his eyes again. Xander looked around, realizing that their precarious perch at the top of the stairs was dipped in shadow and the window too far away to be a threat. He sat on the step, Spike above him and a gaping chasm below. He thought about Buffy and Giles, Dawn and Andrew. About Rosanna and Elena, and the helpless honeymoon couple on the train. About the baby slayers, gone home to be mourned by their families, and the blustering pirate in the Oxford hotel. He thought about the scholar priest at Byland Abbey and wondered who would mourn for him. He thought about Gabriella and the tatters of his friendship with Melina. About the way Tiago’s hot blood had felt in his mouth and the way Spike’s fangs had felt in his throat as he came. Most of all he thought about Willow. About speaking to her on the phone only hours before and about Drusilla’s mocking words. Xander sat on the step, his shoulder resting against Spike’s knee at his back and his chin on his own knee as he counted the minutes and tried not to listen to the noises coming from the other side of the door.

At his back, Spike stiffened and Drusilla wailed. Then there was silence.

They sat on the stair for endless hours, not moving. Xander kept his face forward, respecting Spike’s privacy. He watched the progress of the sun, as the shadows twisted and danced through the well of the lighthouse. He didn’t speak. In the silence he wasn’t sure if he existed any more.

When Spike eventually spoke, his voice sounded like it was coming from a thousand miles away. “You remember you asked me if I’d ever been to Lisbon before?” he said softly. “Told you me and Dru had been there in the 30’s. There was a building there. The Casa dos Bicos it was called. ‘The House of Spikes’. It kind of made me laugh. It is a sixteenth century job, I think. Or somewhere round there, give or take a few years. All sharp edges and white stone. Dru loved it. She thought they’d built it just for us.” He paused and Xander almost felt that he could hear Spike’s heartbeat echo down the centuries in the silence. “So I didn’t tell her any different. It made her happy, so I let it be.”

Xander contemplated turning around, but then the knee at his back began to tremble. He fixed his eyes forward, staring at the blank grey wall of the tower. His fingernails dug hard into the palms of his hands.

Eventually he felt Spike move. The steps creaked eerily in the quiet of the hollow tower as he stood. Xander stood as well. Without looking back he started slowly down the steps, strangely comforted by the thump, thump, thump of Spike’s boots on the metal as they descended. At last they reached the bottom and Xander bent down next to the dead caretaker to pick up the stake. He was thankful that the tourist season had ended and the lighthouse and museum were closed. The idea of a school party discovering the carnage turned his stomach.

“Do we just leave them?” he said, staring down at the body at his feet.

“Nothing else we can do, love. We’ll phone the police once we’ve put some distance behind us, yeah?”

Nodding, Xander turned away and retraced his steps through the gift shop, past the body of the woman by the door and out into the twilight. The causeway was covered and he turned back to Spike. “You’re going to have to get your boots wet.”

“Bugger,” Spike said and walked forward into the water. He didn’t stop to see if Xander followed, just strode on, until the water was up to his calves. If he hadn’t felt so wrung out, Xander might have laughed. But he didn’t. He took off his boots, slung them around his neck and followed his Sire.

They walked the length of the causeway in silence. When they reached the end, Xander perched on a bollard at the other end and put his boots back on, while Spike muttered under his breath. The silence continued as they walked up the hill to the start of the cliff top path. Spike turned and stared back at the lighthouse and the last light of the setting sun reflecting on the water. Xander laid a tentative hand on his arm, but Spike shook his head, turned and walked quickly past him and on along the top of the cliff.

Xander followed. It was what he did.

The car was still parked in the same spot where they’d left it the night before. It had a ticket on the windshield which Xander knew Spike wouldn’t pay. He walked wearily up to the passenger door, stopping abruptly when he saw a familiar body curled up in the seat. Her red hair spilled out over the headrest and her feet were curled up under her. Her eyes were closed. Xander’s stomach heaved and he pulled the car door open with a shaking hand and touched the side of her face.

Willow opened her eyes and smiled at him and he dropped to his knees in the dirt, his head in her lap as he fought back the tears.

She stroked his hair and he wallowed in the sensation, familiar from his earliest memories, then raised his head. “I thought you were dead. She said…” He broke off, shaking his head and hugged her tightly.

“Not dead. Just a little late. I know I said I’d stay at home, but I couldn’t leave you both up here on your own. I had to get my strength back, but a few hours ago I teleported up. I guess it took more out of me than I expected.” She looked up at Spike. “I felt her go. She was powerful; her magic was powerful and I felt it rip and disappear. I’d say I was sorry, but you know that would be a lie.”

Spike nodded. “I know. Appreciate your honesty, Witch. For the record, I’m glad you’re not dead.”

Willow snorted and kissed Xander’s forehead. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N**
> 
> If anyone is interested, here are a couple of photos of St Mary’s from when Maz and I visited it during the summer when I was back in the UK. You can find them at the end of this chapter on my LJ right [here...](http://sparrow2000.livejournal.com/109952.html)


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander is still coming to terms with the events in [Magpie](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sparrow2000&keyword=Magpie&filter=all), but forces outside his control seem disinclined to leave him alone.

**Mockingbird: Chapter 13 (Epilogue)**

The main cemetery gate was shut when they got to Kensal Green, but they bypassed it and followed the wall to a small postern gate, almost hidden from view by a tangle of ivy and the winter stems of an old rose climber. Xander looked around to check they weren’t being watched, then settled the flowers he was carrying in the crook of his left arm. Digging in the right hand pocket of his jacket, he produced a small key, slid it into the lock and opened the door. It was the entrance that the Watchers had used since the cemetery had been built, designed by both nature and magic to go unnoticed by visitors and passersby.

Closing the door carefully, he glanced over at Spike before following the winding path through the old gravestones to the mausoleum. The walk was soothing, comforting in a way he couldn’t quite explain. But in this place of the dead he found solace in being alive, undead, when so many others were gone. At least if he was still here, he could remember them. And he could mourn.

The cracked marble columns of the mausoleum hadn’t changed since his last visit. He wasn’t sure why they would have, but so much seemed to have happened in a scant few days, that somehow, he felt like the world had changed and that the physical landscape should have changed to keep pace, tectonic plates shifting to match the new landscape in his head.

He was rubbing his hand up and down one of the columns, wondering idly when habit turned into obsession, when a smaller white hand overlaid his own and clasped it lightly. “They’re still here, pet. They’re still safe. Told you: Victorian engineering isn’t going to topple just because you turn your back for a few days.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Well, that was unexpected.” Xander looked back questioningly. “You agreeing with me. It doesn’t happen very often.”

“Maybe I’m tired of being predictable.” A ghost of a smile flickered across his face and he pulled his hand out of Spike’s grasp and held it out. “Come on, give me the key. I know you’ve got it.”

Spike snorted, but he fished in the pocket of his coat, pulled out the large, ornate key and handed it over. Xander put it into the lock, turned it and pushed the well oiled door open. Stooping, he picked up the bouquet of lilies that was lying at his feet and walked slowly into the gloom. Spike followed, pausing to light the single candle by the door.

Xander knelt in front of the far wall. He took the dead flowers from the vase on the floor and laid them aside. Stem by stem, he placed the lilies into the vase that never seemed to run out of fresh water. He suspected Willow had something to do with that, but he’d never felt the need to ask. When the flowers were arranged to his satisfaction, he contemplated the white plaques that made up the bottom row in the wall of remembrance: Buffy Summers, Dawn Summers, Rupert Giles and Andrew Wells. Out of habit, he traced his fingers across the names, starting with Andrew and finishing with Buffy, but his hand lingered over Giles’ name as he remembered a body stuffed without pity into the trunk of a car. “We got her,” he whispered. “I’m sorry it took so long. I’m sorry I couldn’t do it sooner.” He paused and glanced back to where Spike stood impassively by the door. He turned back to face the wall. To face the plaques, and the names, and the dates that proved that they had lived. And that they had died. “I couldn’t do it in the end. Spike had to do it. I don’t know if he’ll ever forgive me for that,” he said softly, almost to himself.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Spike’s voice was quiet, but Xander swallowed hard, stood slowly and turned. He shook his head, for once bereft of words.

“Come on,” Spike said, nodding his head towards the outside. “Walk with me. I’ve got something to show you.”

Xander glanced back at the wall of white plaques and bent to pick up the dead lilies. He passed Spike, watching until he’d snuffed out the candle and locked the door behind them. Placing the flowers in the wire basket bin nearby, Xander stood and waited.

“This way.” Spike took the path to the right, winding his way between well tended marble and granite gravestones, until he skirted the back of a small chapel and walked towards a small block of graves that were marked by a drunken huddle of fallen stones. At the far end, there was a gravestone embedded in the ground, its edges overgrown and the sandstone covered in lichen. Spike stopped and stood in front of it, his head bowed. Xander came to a halt beside him. He wanted to ask why they had stopped, but Spike seemed content to stand in silence. Xander could only give him back the gift of respect and restraint that Spike had offered him, whenever they’d visited the cemetery over the past year.

Courtesy and curiosity warred in his soul. Eventually he broke the silence. “Why here?” he asked.

Chuckling, Spike hunkered down, then looked up at Xander. “Wondered how long it would take you to ask. You did better than I expected.” He brushed the dirt off the sandstone and scrapped at the lichen, gradually revealing the worn writing underneath. “This is the grave of Guillaume de Blanc”

“Who?”

“William the White.” Spike grinned up at Xander. “Otherwise known as me.”

“This is your grave?” Xander said incredulously. “All this time we’ve been visiting the cemetery and you didn’t come?”

“Not much point, love.” Spike shrugged his shoulders, but his fingers traced over the sandstone, clearing it of dirt and moss and the overgrown grass around the edges. “No point laying flowers on the grave of a dead man when he’s still walking around.”

“I don’t understand.” Xander wondered if he should hunker down, to be on Spike’s level, but somehow he felt as if it would be intruding even more on something so personal.

Spike chuckled again. “Not much to understand,” he said. “After I’d been turned for a while, Dru wanted to bury me. Make a marker of the passing of William and the birth of Spike. She decided I needed a grave.”

“Guillaume de Blanc?” Xander asked, trying not to sound dubious and failing miserably.

“Always the romantic, was Dru. She wanted to bury the poet. Bury the virgin. Bury the Victorian. She wanted something grandiose and ridiculous. So we chose a ridiculous name. William the White… William the virgin. William, the bloody awful poet.”

Xander closed his eye briefly, imagining Drusilla and a very young Spike laughing as they buried the past. A thought flitted through his head and he opened his eye and grinned down at Spike. “I guess it could have been worse,” he said. “She could have called you Saruman, or maybe Gandalf.”

“Git,” Spike replied, but there was no rancor in his tone. “Anyway, Tolkien wasn’t born then, so watch your lip.”

“Yes Spike,” Xander said with a smile. He gazed down at Spike, hunkered in front of the empty grave and he shivered as the meaning of the scene sank down from his brain and into his bones. “Thank you,” he said.

“For what?” Spike asked curiously.

“For trusting me. For showing me this. For helping me over the last year, when you could have turned your back.” Xander looked out blindly into the dark before making himself look back at Spike. “For doing the one thing that must have hurt you most. For killing Dru.”

Spike rose to his feet, wiping the dirt off his jeans and his hands. He stood directly in front of Xander and shook his head. “I didn’t kill Dru. She killed herself. She knew she wasn’t walking out of there. She knew we were never going to come over.”

Xander opened his mouth to speak, but Spike held a finger to Xander’s lips, silencing him before he could start. “The choice of the lighthouse wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a tactical mistake. She knew. She was a seer. She saw her own death and she chose her own end. Her gift and her curse to us, was making us be there. To give her what she wanted. She’s probably laughing in hell.”

Shivering at the thought, Xander pulled his coat closer around himself. “What happens now?” he said hesitantly.

“Now?” Spike raised an eyebrow.

“With us?”

“Us?”

“I mean, Sire and childe. Big bad and former Scooby. Spike and the half blind donut boy. What happens now?”

“What do you want to happen?”

“I don’t know.” Xander hunched his shoulders. “I want us to be friends. We’ve come through too much. Shared too much not to be. I want…I want to see what happens next. We’ve got so much time in front of us and I don’t know what’s going to happen. But I want to see where it goes.” He bent his head and then looked up, peering at Spike through the tangle of his hair. “Show me what it means. What it means to be who we are. What we are. Show me what it could mean.”

Spike reached up and ran a hand through the untidy hair, his finger trailing slowly along Xander’s jaw and down over the remnants of the bite mark on his neck. “I can do that, love. I can show what it means.”

Xander nodded, knowing that if he was still human he’d be blushing, but instead he smiled and Spike smiled back.

Together, they turned their back on the uncared for, overgrown grave and threaded their way through the tangle of headstones. They passed by the side of the Watcher’s mausoleum and Xander ran his hand along the old stone, feeling its weight, and solidity, and strength. He knew that he would be back. Perhaps not next week, or the week after, but he would be back.

He knew that the people inside would understand.

  
FIN...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N**  
>  Well that’s it!
> 
> Thanks as always to [](http://thismaz.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://thismaz.livejournal.com/)**thismaz** for being a brilliant beta, a great sounding board and the best friend I could wish for.Thank you to everyone who came along for the ride when I was posting weekly on my LJ. Your comments always made my weekend.
> 
> For anyone who's got this far, you may be interested that I've written a new multi-part story in this series. It's called Nightjar and takes place five years after the end of Mockingbird. I have just started posting [ Nightjar at my LJ](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sparrow2000&keyword=Nightjar&filter=all) and will be doing so on a weekly basis for the next four months. I'll post the story in its entirety at A03 when I've finished the LJ post, which will be Oct. 2017. If you read, I hope you enjoy.


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